Cleric
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: John Preston is still just learning the heights and depths of his emotions when renegade Clerics revolt, forcing him to wonder if everything he has fought for is really worth the cost.
1. Chapter 1

_Attributions: to the song "The Awakening," and to William Butler Yeats for the poem. And, of course, to the makers of "Equilibrium." I own nothing but my original characters. _Please, please _leave a review, so I know how I'm doing!_

_VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV _

SOON WE MUST ALL FACE THE CHOICE

BETWEEN WHAT IS

RIGHT

AND WHAT IS

EASY.

-_Rowling_

Cleric

Chapter One

"I dreamed a dream, a silent dream, of a land not far away

Where no bird sang

No steeples rang

And teardrops fell like rain..."

_There were those who awoke that first day, glanced into the face of the sunrise, and were  
suddenly stricken with a painfully keen surge of wonder and awe that they had never felt  
in their lives. It rushed though them like a flood and held them captive, rooting them to  
that spot on their bedroom floor, thrills running up and down their spines.  
They went into their bathrooms and splashed cold water on their faces, and when the  
cool liquid streamed down their cheeks and necks, they jerked back, their eyes widening,  
because for the very first time, that sensation caused life and awareness to cascade  
through their beings.  
They walked out into their sitting rooms and suddenly, with potent astonishment and  
realization, registered the unique beauty of the familiar faces they had never  
considered before. They called their little ones to their arms. They wept. Their tears  
were foreign, startling, but welcome. They were free. Free from the emotionless chains  
that had always bound them.  
But there were others who shocked into wakefulness at five a.m., screams and gun  
shots and moans of agony echoing through their minds. Dreams--dreams of wild violence  
and slaughter--now haunted their waking hours. And as they sat there in the dark,  
sweating, the horror of the atrocities they had committed with their own hands bombarded  
them in a ferocious onslaught that they could not begin to understand. _

_They instantly knew that they wanted it gone. All they desired was to return to feeling nothing. For they were certain that if they had to live with the screams of those they had murdered ringing through their ears, they would go mad._

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"We've found another one," John stated.

"Already? That's two in the past week."

"We're in luck."

Cleric John Preston, his floor-length, black, high-collared, priest-like coat sweeping behind him, strode down the tall-ceilinged corridor, his boots and his partner's echoing against the hard surface, perfectly in sync. John's jaw was set, and his dark eyes focused straight in front of him as he took his even, steady strides, according to the rigid discipline to which he had always been accustomed.

"Where is it this time?"

John glanced over at his partner who had spoken, a handsome, younger man with sandy blonde hair that hung down in his bright blue eyes. He wore a similar coat, but it was dark blue, and only knee-length, indicating a lesser rank.

"In the far north end of the Nether," John answered, his voice deeper than his partner's, and more level. "In a hidden basement."

"I see," was the reply, and the two of them pushed the front doors of the skyscraper open, and stepped out into the warm midafternoon sun.

John took a deep breath of the slight breeze as he descended the dozen stairs, casually surveying his surroundings with a sweeping gaze, as was his custom. The streets were not busy at this time of day, and the sun stood high enough to overreach the heights of the towering, gray buildings that crowded the street.

Waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs was a sleek, black vehicle built for maneuverability, efficiency and speed. John swung around the front of the car, opened the door and slid into the white leather driver's seat. He and his partner's doors slammed shut at the same time, and the engine rumbled smoothly as John turned the key in the ignition.

John did not speak as they drove, but his partner commented occasionally on certain empty buildings or open spaces that could be put to better use. John always looked where his partner pointed, and considered his words, but was not moved to discussion.

After half an hour, they crossed a narrow steel bridge, flanked by battered, abandoned watch-stations, and left the city, entering the Nether. His partner always ceased comment when they passed this border, and merely stared out the windows at the tumbling, foggy ruins. It seemed darker in the Nether, somehow--haunted. Many streets were blocked because of old wreckage, but John knew the swiftest paths through alleys and side streets.

At long last, they pulled up in front of what had been a library, before The War. After shutting the car off, the two men looked up at the brown, desolate brick building for a moment, then got out and climbed up the stairs. Their footsteps on the paving stones echoed flatly through the empty air. Just a hint of a breeze brushed at John's dark hair, but did not displace it. He reached the landing and glanced around behind him. The dead city was utterly quiet, besides the trash fluttering in the barren streets. He swallowed, and his brow tightened slightly.

He turned, and tested the brass doorknob. It clattered in protest. Of course it was locked. He took a step back, briefly set himself, and kicked the door with the flashing force of a battering ram.

It splintered, burst open, and banged against the inside wall. He stepped inside, feeling his partner right on his shoulder. He heard his partner slide his gun out of his holster.

"Relax, Thomas," John urged, glancing around the dusty, cobwebbed entryway. "I'll protect you."

"Mhum." Thomas did not sound as if he believed him. The corners of John's mouth twitched upward slightly, and he continued farther in.

Glass littered the floor, doubtlessly from some old raid when all the pictures in frames had been broken. The shards crunched beneath the men's feet as they made their way swiftly yet cautiously forward. John took another deep breath, paused a moment, then turned left and passed the threshold of a broken wooden door.

All that lay beyond was a small, mostly bare, white office. A single window in the north wall bore some curtains, and as all the glass had been smashed out of the window, the curtains rustled a little with the outside air. A wooden desk lay upturned in the center of the tan linoleum floor, and one ceiling fan hung awry. Papers littered the tiles.

"You think--" Thomas began. John nodded.

"It's here somewhere."

He reached out his hand, and touched the painted wall with his bare fingertips. He never wore gloves, anymore. He stepped in, following the wall, running his hand softly against it, his head lowered, his eyes unfocused. The blank papers rustled beneath his steps. He closed his eyes.

His sensitive fingers picked up every tiny bump, crack and flaw in the paint. When he arrived in the corner, he paused, and thoughtfully ran his forefinger up and down the corner crack, and then he continued along the south wall. The only sound was his own breathing, and the flicker of a single stray paper.

He halted as his fingers encountered an odd ridge. He raised his arm and followed it, just barely, with his fingertips, finding that it ascended and descended vertically. He lifted his head and turned it toward Thomas. He raised his eyebrows.

"We've got it."

He leaned into the wall as Thomas approached. John tapped the hard surface with his fingertips, heard it resonate oddly, and then, with his previous confident ease, stepped back, set his stance, and kicked a hole straight through the wall.

The hidden door collapsed with a snap. It was in fact made of plywood, and crumbled like cardboard. A cloud of fine dust flew up in the air, and Thomas waved a hand in front of his face to keep from inhaling it. John merely stood there, trying to peer into the dimness beyond.

Thomas stepped forward, holding his gun at the ready, and eased his head through the opening.

"Well..." he said slowly. "You were right, as always."

John ventured through the gap, and found himself at the top of seven stairs. Down below him was a cache of EC-10--Emotional Content--just like so many other such hoards that he had seen before. Silently, he descended the steps, and swept a trained eye over all of their findings:

Four beautifully hand-crafted, dark-wood vanities with mirrors; three oil lamps and two little, electric bedside lamps; a whole set of shelves filled with delicate glass knick-knacks--like ladies in flowing dresses, little black dogs, tigers, and small clocks; an intricately-decorated brass typewriter; an antique sleigh bed covered in a hand-sewn quilt; a pink, long-legged crib filled with baby dolls; colored bottles of perfume; several pictures in frames on the walls; and a knot-rug on the floor. Several boxes were also stacked beneath the legs of the vanities.

Wordlessly, John approached the shelves of knick-knacks, for one of them on top had caught his eye.

It was a black, prancing horse, with a gold mane, tail and hooves. He gingerly reached out and picked it up, then held it in both hands, running his fingers along the smoothness of the glass and his gaze over the glimmer of the paint in the light.

Suddenly, Thomas let out a laugh. John started slightly and turned to him. Thomas held several thin booklets in his hands that he had gotten out of a box, and was thumbing through the first one.

"Take a look at this!" Thomas approached him and held it out. "I think you'll get a kick out of this. It's basically a book of pictures about a man who climbs up walls with his fingers."

John set the horse down and took the book from his partner.

"_Spiderman_," he murmured, glancing over the cover, which bore an illustration of a man in a red body suit scaling the side of a skyscraper on his hands and knees. The edges of John's mouth twitched upward again.

"Isn't that funny?" Thomas wanted to know. John nodded.

"Yeah, it is."

"Cleric," Thomas approached and slapped an arm around John's shoulders. John's brow furrowed at the unaccustomed contact. Thomas lowered his boyish, narrow face and cocked an eyebrow, speaking in a confidential tone.

"I know that you're amused, deep down somewhere," he said quietly. His eyebrow arched higher. "But you're really going to have to practice that smile. It's weak."

Reflexively, John suddenly grinned and chuckled. Thomas laughed and gave him a shake.

"See! I knew you could do it."

"I'm working on it," John told him. Thomas slapped him on the back.

"I'll go upstairs and call the trucks, if you want to start organizing things in to breakables and non-breakables." Thomas started toward the stairs. John nodded.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. Thomas grinned back at him.

"You're lucky I leave the fun part to you." And he hopped up the stairs and stepped into the office.

"Restoration, this is Cleric and Disciple, do you read?"

He apparently received an answer.

"Good! If you follow our vehicle's tracking signal," he continued. "We've found an untouched cache that needs to be picked up."

John watched his partner's shadow for a moment, sliding his hand into his pocket and fingering a soft, red ribbon he always kept there.

Thomas had a lot to teach him. He thanked God he had the chance to learn.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"He's home!" Lisa Preston raced to her apartment's front door at the sound of the bell, her blue day dress swishing around her knees, and her long brunette curls bouncing. But she was not tall enough yet to release the lock. "Robbie!" she shouted. "Robbie, I need help!"

"All right, all right," Robbie, her slightly older brother, sighed, coming out of his room, paint smudged across his nose. His brown hair was disheveled, very different from the style he had been forced to wear during The Senseless Time. He also had long ago discarded his black wardrobe, and now wore a prized pair of jeans and a long t-shirt. Robbie hurried across the carpeted sitting room, reached over his sister's head and opened the door.

Their father stood there, his head lowered, his hands behind his back. His mouth was curved upward, just slightly. Lisa gasped and beamed.

"What did you bring, what did you bring?"

"Patience, patience," John teased in a low voice, stepped inside, and Lisa grabbed at his long coat, trying to see behind him.

"Just a second, Lisa, I'll get to you," John assured her. "For Robbie..." He brought his right hand out from behind him, and held out the _Spiderman _booklets. Robbie eyed them with interest.

"I've _heard _of these!" he exclaimed, taking them in both hands. "They're very famous--at least the other boys say so." He looked up at his father gravely. "Thank you, John."

For the second time that day, John chuckled, and impulsively tousled his son's hair. Robbie looked surprised.

"Don't be so serious, Robbie," John regarded his son pointedly. "You and I need to work on that. Especially with things like..." He gestured to the pamphlets. "...comic books."

"Comic books!" Robbie snapped his fingers. "_That's _what they're called!"

"What about me?" Lisa insisted. John, still keeping the next object hidden, stepped over to stand in front of the black couch. Lisa followed him, and stood in front of him expectantly. John had no trouble in smiling this time, as he gazed down at his daughter's big, long-lashed brown eyes and soft face. Slowly, he brought the glass horse out from behind his back. Lisa's mouth fell open and she gasped slowly.

"Ooooh," she breathed.

"Careful," John instructed. "It's glass, so it will break."

"What _is _it?" Lisa whispered, taking it from him very carefully and studying it.

"It's a horse," John explained, easing down to sit on the couch, brushing the tails of his coat out of the way.

"What's a horse?" Lisa's eyes remained riveted on the figurine, her brow delicately creased, but she moved in and leaned back against the inside of her father's knee. Naturally, he gathered her up, wrapping his left arm around her and lifting her legs onto his lap with his right. He leaned the side of his head against her forehead.

"It's a big animal--they still have a few, out in the country," he explained quietly. "They run in fields...and I've heard people keep them as pets and ride them."

Lisa gasped again and looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"Really?"

John sat back a little, smiled again and nodded, his eyes taking in her every feature. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Robbie lie down on his stomach on the carpet, right by John's feet, and open up one of the comics. Lisa leaned closer to John, and whispered to him.

"_Can we get one_?"

This time, John really did laugh, and the sound rang through the room.

"C'mon, where would we put it, Lisa?" Robbie countered.

"We could get someplace!" Lisa snapped back. John brushed a hand over his face to hide his mouth.

"What?" Lisa objected. "Robbie and I would take care of it!"

"You two don't even play that much with my dog," John pointed out.

"_Your _dog?" both children exclaimed, and then began a simultaneously running petition about how often they fed him, brushed him and walked him compared to the duties John fulfilled concerning him.

"Now listen," John set Lisa down and stood up, raising his eyebrows. "I did a little thing called saving the dog's _life_...so that's qualification enough."

"Okay then," Robbie sneered good-naturedly. "You can clean up the trash that he tore up in the kitchen."

The good humor fell from John's face instantly.

"The what?"

Lisa burst into a fit of giggles and Robbie shook his head.

"Robbie's lying," Lisa confessed, hiding behind her horse.

"Well, where is the dog, then?" John questioned.

"He's shut in my room," Robbie answered, glancing back down at his comic. John's eyebrows came together.

"Why?"

Robbie looked up at him.

"He stepped in paint and walked all over," he explained calmly. "Since the floor in my room is tile, I can clean it up later, but I didn't want him tracking it on the carpet."

"That was thoughtful of you," John commented as he swiftly headed toward his son's room. He heard his children get up and follow him.

"Careful--" Robbie warned, just as John opened the door.

Their dog, Jack, sat in the middle of the room, wagging his tail rapidly, his tongue hanging out. The children had taught Jack early on not to bark, because before, it was not safe to own an animal. John stepped forward with a word of greeting and grabbed the long-haired dog's ears, shaking them in a friendly manner. The young dog did let out a little yip as John straightened and looked around.

All the furniture was draped in sheets, as was the floor. Small cans of paint were scattered everywhere, and John saw that Robbie had dragged the kitchen table in here. He was about to express some irritation--when he looked up.

"Oh," he breathed. The entire ceiling was painted with a half-finished mural of muscled figures and flowing garments.

"It's like the picture in the book you brought me last week," Robbie explained, coming up to stand beside him and gaze upward as well. "Something called the Sistine Chapel. I can't do it nearly as well as...whoever, of course," Robbie amended. "But I thought it would be...fun?"

"Robbie," John murmured. "This is amazing."

Robbie's face relaxed and he spoke faster.

"You can see it much better this way. I have to get down from the table sometimes because it hurts my neck, but if you lie on the bed--" He flopped down on his back on the bed and folded his hands on his chest. "Then it looks good." He patted the space next to him. John hesitated a moment, then picked his way around the paint cans, sat down on the edge of the bed and laid back.

"Yes," he whispered, going over every inch of the ceiling. His chest tightened. "Yes, it does."

"Is someone going to let me in?" The voice came from outside the front door.

"Tom!" Lisa exclaimed, and bolted out of Robbie's room. Robbie hopped up and followed her.

"Lisa, don't run!" he commanded. "You'll drop your horse and break it."

"I'm not gonna break it!" she answered back.

"Stay," Robbie instructed the dog. Obediently, Jack sat down, and Robbie left the room. John sighed, got up and trailed after his kids. The dog barked impatiently, but did not move from his spot.

John entered the sitting room and found Thomas squatting down in front of Lisa as she held out her treasure for him to see.

"You want to take very special care of that," Thomas advised her. "There aren't many of them in the world."

"I will," she promised.

"Go put it in your room and then we'll go," John told her. Keeping her eyes on her figurine, she paced back to the hallway. Thomas stood up.

"Anything good this time?" Robbie questioned him. Thomas nodded.

"Oh, yeah. Lots," Thomas told him. "The things we found last week will be up for grabs, too--and there were a lot of toy models and action-figures that I saw."

Robbie's face lit up.

"Good," he affirmed.

"I'm ready!" Lisa came trotting out, and Thomas grabbed her, spun her around, and lifted her, shrieking, up to sit on his shoulders.

"Okay, let's go!" Thomas opened the door, and the four of them left the apartment.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"I haven't seen Lydia around lately," John commented as they headed down the curving hallway. Thomas cleared his throat and didn't look at him.

"I'm...not really talking with her right now."

John frowned.

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure she's right for me." Thomas glanced at him around Lisa's leg. "Do you know what I mean?"

"No," John looked straight ahead. His hand was in his pocket again, fingering the ribbon.

"Well, I didn't expect you would," Thomas said lightly. "But someday you'll meet someone, and you'll think you know her, right down to her heart, and she'll think that she knows you too--that you have a connection. But then you don't. And after a while, it goes away. And you look for someone else."

John shook his head.

"What?" Thomas demanded.

"You're right. I have no idea what you're talking about." And John's hand closed around the ribbon, as if it was about to slip out of his grasp.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

On their way to descending a long flight of stairs to the market courtyard, the four traipsed along a balcony walkway overlooking a large, white gymnasium. John slowed and approached the railing, surveying the sight below.

A hundred men sparred in pairs down below, or practiced the precise art of the gun kata, or refined their ground fighting skills. For an instant, it looked exactly like the training sessions of the Tetragrammaton--until one man unexpectedly flipped his partner on his back, and both of them burst out laughing. The utterance echoed against the hard surfaces, and a few others glanced over and joined in the amusement, throwing out a few good-natured taunts.

"Cleric!"

John turned to see a white-haired, stocky, uniformed man approaching them swiftly, holding a clipboard.

"You are just the man I've been wanting to see," the man told him. John inclined his head.

"Officer Branon. Good afternoon."

The man seemed slightly out of breath, but in good humor as he stopped before them and addressed them all.

"Good day, Prestons! Hello, Thomas." He leaned forward. "How are you liking your assigned position?"

"What's not to like?" Thomas grinned, lifting Lisa off his shoulders and setting her down. "I get to learn from the best."

"Yes, the president's idea of pairing Clerics with Undergroundsmen in mentorship was a brilliant idea," Branon turned to observe the sparring on the lower level. "The Undergroundsmen are quickly learning how to protect themselves and their families, and the Clerics are picking up common necessaries--such as handshakes, jokes and horseplay."

John chuckled.

"You can't live without that."

Branon laughed deeply.

"No, you certainly can't." He turned to address John. "And I must say that the new training program you developed has been working marvelously."

John's eyebrows went up.

"I am glad to hear it."

"Yes, yes--it is proving much more effective in teaching the simple self-defense maneuvers quickly, rather than spending years of repetition." Branon paused a moment, then frowned. "But I am sorry to say that we do not have the retention we would have liked."

John's gaze sharpened.

"What do you mean?"

"Out of a hundred and fifty, twenty Clerics have quit the mentorship, you see," he told him. John looked at him sideways.

"For what reason?"

Branson shrugged a trifle stiffly.

"They told me they wished to pursue other interests." Branson glanced up at him. "They told me they were tired of fighting."

John scanned the lines of men once more and nodded slowly.

"I see."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

John leaned against one doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, and Thomas leaned against the opposite as they gazed out over the large courtyard market. The sunlight reached half of it, making a person squint if he glanced into those reaches. All around the perimeter of the courtyard, venders had set up booths, and were selling or trading the EC-10. There was a booth for table-cloths, one for toys, one for chinaware, another for lamps, another for picture frames, and many more. Hundreds of people milled around, talking, laughing, and bartering. John watched them carefully, and also cast a wary look overhead once in a while. He and Thomas were in charge of keeping this area of the apartment complex secure. He felt the small guns he always wore press against his forearms, and others, which were strapped inside his coat, press against his chest. He also wore a handgun in each boot, and against each hip. He had been wearing these weapons for so many years he barely felt them unless he thought about it. It was all he knew.

"My son is painting his ceiling," John said, just loud enough for Thomas to hear, while he watched his children run from vender to vender.

"Really?" Thomas answered, glancing at the second story windows across the way. John nodded.

"Like the Sistine Chapel."

Thomas did stare at him this time. John did not meet his gaze.

"It makes me wonder..." John mused, his voice tightening slightly. "If I...had been given the chance...what could I have done?" He looked at Thomas. "What else could I have learned besides how to shoot a gun?"

Thomas faced him squarely.

"Listen, you may not be able to hold a paintbrush," Thomas said slowly. "But you mastered your weapons--and because you did, you made it possible for kids to paint on ceilings if they want to." Thomas turned back to the crowd. "That's just as important."

John nodded wordlessly, then shifted. The gun on his left side was cold against his ribs.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

Please review!!

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Chapter Two

"I dreamed a dream of a land so filled with pride

That every song,

Both weak and strong

Withered and died..."

_He sat on a straight-backed chair, his hands folded in his lap, his gaze straight ahead. He cut a sharp figure in the pristinely-white hospital hall, for he was clad all in black. His head turned to the left at the click of an opening door. He rose to his feet, clasped his gloved hands behind his back and faced the white-garbed, elderly doctor that emerged._

_"Is it over?" _

_"Yes, Cleric," the doctor acknowledged. "But may I ask what sex of child you were hoping for, sir?"_

_John canted his head._

_"My wife and I were hoping for a son. We would be honored to give two of our children to Father as Clerics, instead of only one."_

_"Then I am sorry sir," the doctor said. "The infant is a female. Shall we dispose of it, sir, to leave you free to try again?"_

_John hesitated. He glanced sideways. Then he shook his head and addressed the doctor again._

_"No. She could be useful in other areas."_

_"Are you sure, Cleric?"_

_John hesitated again._

John gasped, jerking into a sitting position, cold sweat running down his forehead. He was trembling all over, the bare skin of his arms and chest shivering like a horse's. He covered his face in his hands, breathing irregularly, then swiped the sweat away. His heart still pounded.

Feeling sick, his throat closing spasmatically, he threw the covers off himself and shuffled into the bathroom.

He splashed cold, shocking water onto his face and neck, and dried himself with a towel. His muscles still quivered. He headed back to his room, grabbed a t-shirt out of a drawer and pulled it on, then quietly made his way down the hall toward his daughter's room.

He peeked inside. She was afraid of the dark, so she left the light on in her closet, the door of which stayed mostly closed, to let only a sliver of light out. Every corner of her room was filled with dolls and toys that John had brought home for her. Her bed was wooden and simple, covered in a fuzzy quilt.

She lay with her back to him, the closet light illuminating her just enough for him to see her loose tresses spreading out over her pillow. She had kicked off her blankets, and they sat in a pile at the foot of her bed. She was curled up tightly as a result, her nightgown not covering her legs very well. He could hear her steady, sleeping breathing. John's throat closed again, and he stepped inside. Her carpet was soft on is bare feet. He leaned his shins against the side of the bed and bent down, gathering up her blankets and gently draping them over her little body again. He tucked the quilt up around her shoulders, and rested his left hand there. With the other, he stroked her head.

His legs went weak, and he sank down onto his knees next to the bed. He clasped his hands together, his elbows braced on the mattress, and pressed his lips against his thumbs. Tears burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks. His body bucked control, and a strangled sob escaped. Lisa stirred, and drowsily turned over. John quickly lowered his hands and swiped at his face. She squinted at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing, sweetheart," John answered thickly, his trembling lips forcing into a small smile.

"Sweetheart?" she repeated, looking at him sideways. "What's _that?_"

"It's my new name for you," John could not keep from reaching out and stroking her forearm. "Just like you get to call me 'dad.'"

"Dad_dy,_" she corrected. He took a shaky breath, his chest constricting.

"Yes. I like that even better."

She raised her eyebrows and patted the bed next to her.

"I'll scoot over," she told him, as she did so. Making his legs work, John got up and climbed onto the bed, lying on his side facing her and pillowing his head on his arm. She reached her hand up and patted his chest.

"Did you have a bad dream?" she asked. John swallowed.

"Yes," he answered brokenly. "Daddy had a bad dream."

Her eyes searched his face.

"Was it scary?" she wanted to know. He nodded.

"Yes. It was a scary dream."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She blinked slowly, and he could tell she was going to fall asleep soon. John leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers.

"You know...how much I need my little girl, don't you?" he whispered haltingly.

"Yeah," she breathed, her eyes drifting closed.

"I would be sad without you," he murmured, another hot tear running down his nose.

"Me too," she answered, and her voice faded away, and she fell asleep. John moved closer to her, wrapping an arm around her, and she instinctively snuggled into his chest. He stayed that way for the rest of the night, staring at her darkened wall, feeling her small heartbeat against his hand.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"You look tired," Thomas commented, watching as John rubbed his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. John sucked in a breath and straightened.

"Forgive me," he cleared his throat. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

The two men sat in the basement security center of the apartment complex--a large, gray, sterile room filled with computers and tactical tables and lit by fluorescent fixtures. John leaned back in his chair and considered the tactical tables in particular. They made this look like a war room, but the tables displayed detailed maps of the city and the Nether, which was proving beneficial to finding caches. Thomas was bent over a computer, studiously poring over old records, but John remained distracted.

"How did your kids like the market last week?" Thomas questioned, scanning down a page on the screen.

"Fine," John answered, propping his elbow on the armrest and draping a finger over his chin. "Lisa got another doll, and Robbie bought three of those action figures you told him about."

Thomas grinned. They fell silent again, the only sound being the tapping of Thomas' keyboard. John shifted and he cleared his throat again, frowning.

"Something wrong?" Thomas asked.

John's gaze flicked up to look at him, then assessed the metal counter top.

"How long were you a sense offender during the regime?" he asked quietly.

Thomas shrugged and typed in another search word.

"Probably about fifteen years. I was only ten when my mom took me off the dose and hurried me to the Underground before they came and got her and my father." Thomas' eyes narrowed at the screen. "Then I became one of the Art Guardians of the Underground and stayed there till the Awakening."

John took a deep breath, brushing his fingertips on the counter.

"So...you don't have nightmares?"

Thomas stopped, and glanced over at the Cleric. John kept his eyes down.

"Is that why you aren't sleeping?" Thomas questioned. John's jaw tightened, and he nodded once. Thomas opened his mouth to say something else, but a communicator buzzed and interrupted. John got up, his coat rustling around his ankles, picked up the comm, pushed the button and put it to his ear.

"Cleric and Disciple," he answered.

"Cleric, this is Restoration Base. We've got a lead on a cache in the south Nether. It's an old, Victorian-style house on Ash street, and the cache is said to contain a Da Vinci. That's all we know."

"Thank you," John answered, his heartbeat speeding up. "We will look into it right away."

He hung up and pocketed the comm.

"What is it?"

"Another one," John told him, heading toward the nearest map table. Thomas got up and stood beside him.

"Where is it?" Thomas questioned.

"In the south end of the Nether, in a Victorian house," John informed him, leaning over the tactical and pressing a few buttons. The board lit up, and as he carefully twisted two knobs, the view swung to the right and down, and he focused the picture more closely.

"On Ash street..." he murmured.

"There," Thomas pointed, spotting it. "Just three blocks off the main highway."

"The highway is blocked near Twin Forks," John reminded him. "An old defense tower fell across it. We'll have to detour, but I think I can get us there." He turned off the tactical, spun around and headed toward the other end of the room. Straightening his coat, he stepped past a guard and into a steel-walled elevator. Thomas entered also and the doors shut behind him. The elevator began to hum as it ascended.

"Anything special we need to know about?" Thomas pressed.

"Yes," John said crisply. "The report says that it contains a Da Vinci."

Thomas' eyes widened.

"A _real _Da Vinci?" he cried. "I've never seen one."

"I have," John admitted. Thomas glanced at him sharply.

"You have? Do you know which one?"

John's brow furrowed.

"I believe it was called _Mona Lisa_." John shrugged slightly. "I only remembered it because part of it is my daughter's name."

Thomas fell silent a moment.

"Was this...during the regime?" he asked cautiously. John paused, then nodded. Thomas' gaze drifted to the floor.

"Oh."

John studied his face, lead sinking down into his gut.

"Was it important?"

"Yes," Thomas answered distantly.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Something isn't right," John declared softly as he peered through the windshield.

"What is it?" Thomas murmured.

"I'm not sure. I always get a strange feeling in the Nether," John slowed the car. "But this is worse."

They rounded a bend in an old residential sector filled with bombed-out houses, hulks of burnt trees and bare, dirt yards. They both knew that Ash Street had been so named before the War--but it seemed to fit the place better now.

"Do you see anything that looks Victorian?" John asked, leaning forward. "I am not very familiar with the style."

"You're not going to have to be."

John glanced over at Thomas sharply. His partner had gone pale, and was staring off to their left. John quickly followed his gaze--and put his foot on the brake. The car halted.

Neither man spoke for a long moment. Then, carefully, John unbuckled and got out.

A dirty, hot wind greeted him, smelling of ash, caustic chemicals and smoke. He ignored it, reduced to stillness by the sight before him.

The old Victorian house had burned. Black scraps of siding, pieces of the porch railing, skeletons of furniture and the solitary chimney were all that remained, shrouded and smoldering. The coenacle roof of a side tower lay in a broken heap in the side yard. John slammed his door.

"When did this happen?" Thomas murmured tightly.

"Last night," John answered, carefully stepping toward it, dry grass crunching beneath his feet. "I can still feel the heat."

Together, they picked their way toward the bulk of the collapse, the soles of their shoes hissing against the ashes.

"Be careful," John warned, glancing back. "There may still be pockets of embers."

Thomas nodded wordlessly. The hem of John's flame-resistant coat whispered against some scattered stones. The two maneuvered around the bricks of the foundation and edged toward a large hole that had been a half basement. John stood on the lip of it and gazed down. His hands closed into fists.

"There's your Da Vinci," he muttered. Thomas stopped beside him and said nothing, only letting out part of a sigh. Down below, next to some boxes, a withered couch and a leaning lamp sat a large, rectangular canvas, warped, wrinkled and blackened, but on the left hand side of it, the profile outline of a kneeling angel could barely be distinguished. The angel looked straight ahead, raising its right hand in greeting.

"It's _The Annunciation,_" Thomas said, his voice tight. Suddenly, he swore, turned and kicked a metal can hard. The strike banged through the silence, and the can clattered down into the hole. Thomas turned his back to it, crossed his arms and hung his head, his jaw tensed.

"Who did this?" John stared at the painting, his eyes narrowing. "This just happened. Who would do this?"

He felt Thomas regard him.

"Vandals? Jerks? _Pyros?_" he said heatedly.

John shook his head.

"No. Everyone knows this property has value. It could be sold for thousands--especially that painting." John took another breath. "And something confuses me. I smell H-13."

"I've heard of it. What exactly is it?"

"A flammable agent," John replied. His voice tapered away. "But it was only used by the Tetragrammaton."

"Then what do you suggest?" Thomas stepped toward him. "It was Clerics?"

John's heart surged and his breath caught as he lifted his head to his partner.

"I..." John blinked, his brow furrowing. "No," he swiftly shook his head. "No, not since the Awakening."

"Why not?" Thomas countered.

"No," John said again, his gaze locked on the painting. "That would mean that they...They knew what they were doing."

Thomas did not answer.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Cleric and Disciple, this is Restoration Base."

John pulled the comm out of his pocket as he drove with one hand.

"Restoration, this is Cleric. We read you."

"Sir, the Council would like a personal briefing with Cleric alone, concerning the report you just logged of the burning of the cache on Ash street. Please be in the main reception hall at promptly four o'clock this afternoon."

"Understood," John replied, and turned off the comm. "They want to meet with me about the burned cache." He cocked an eyebrow at Thomas. "That didn't take long."

"I wonder if they also think it's Clerics," Thomas mused. John swallowed and did not reply, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"What's going on?"

John glanced at his bathroom mirror to see the reflection of his son standing behind him in the doorway.

"I have a meeting with the Council," John replied, buttoning the topmost button of his high-collared, pure-white dress uniform. Robbie came in to stand beside him.

"What about?"

John glanced down into the aged blue eyes of his young son. He straightened his collar.

"Remember I told you that Thomas and I went to investigate a cache in the Nether this morning?"

Robbie nodded.

"The house was burned." John turned back and assessed his sharp reflection.

"By accident?" Robbie inquired. John shook his head once.

"No. I smelled H-13."

Robbie sat down on the edge of the shower and crossed his arms.

"Then it must be old agents of the Tetragrammaton," he concluded. John turned toward him, his eyebrows raised.

"You think so?"

Robbie shrugged.

"It makes sense. You told me yourself that DuPont was a Sense Offender. And he was ordering the destruction of EC-10 all the time."

John straightened in discomfort.

"Well, that is why I have to go to the meeting. Could you get me my katana?"

Robbie got up and moved to the door.

"Do you want your gloves as well?"

"I don't wear those anymore."

Robbie smiled briefly.

"Of course. I forgot."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Restoration Base was housed inside the main building of the old Tetragrammaton Palace of Justice, because it was in the center of the city, was large, and equipped with the finest technology of the time. Understandably, however, there had been some major changes to its appearance. The giant "T" that crowned the entrance was despicable to the Restoration, but very difficult to remove, so it had been covered with a sweeping banner of Michelangelo's _Creation_. Potted plants had also been arranged on the flanks of the great staircase, including budding apple trees and, as it was spring, some long-stemmed red and yellow flowers. People milled about and sat on benches and stairs in the shade of the small trees.

John slowed to a halt as he walked up before the edifice, and stared at the towering building. It presented a strange and mixed sight to him.

And when he laid a casual hand on his sword hilt and began to ascend the stairs, the people parted like the Red Sea.

They instantly stopped their conversations, moved out of his way and stood very still, watching him. John did not look at them, for their sake. They had still not expelled the memories of Clerics in their dress whites, marching with their katana swords hanging from sashes draped across their shoulders. He kept his gaze down, especially avoiding the eyes of the men, and arrived at the front door. A blue-garbed guard approached him.

"What is your name, sir?" he asked.

It was only then that John drew himself up and spoke deliberately.

"Restoration Cleric John Preston. I am here to meet with the Restoration Council."

Gasps traveled up and down the crowd behind him, and murmurs--but the murmurs were warm. He now glanced behind him, and caught several people sending him broad smiles. They went back to their conversing, and were even more easy than when he had first arrived. The guard also straightened and gave him a friendly grin.

"Yes, sir. You are expected." The guard moved and opened the thick door for him. "Go right on in."

John inclined his head.

"Thank you." He stepped inside, and glanced upward. He stopped.

This room had undergone drastic overhauling. Before, the walls had been black marble, the same as the floor, and the towering ceiling had been gray and blank, like an overcast sky.

Now, the walls had been re-done in gold; beautiful, shining chandeliers hung down from the tin-type ceiling; a red carpet covered the floor, and a laughing, stone fountain had been installed in the center of the chamber. Officials scurried back and forth, entering and exiting the long hallways that connected to this room, carrying small computers, notebooks and cups of coffee. Their voices and footsteps mingled and bounced off the hard surfaces--a sharp contrast to the dead, flat silence of old.

"Looks a little different, doesn't it Cleric?" an inside guard sidled up to him. John glanced at him.

"Yes," John confessed. "The last time I was here, they were still fixing the walls, and there were no chandeliers."

The middle-aged guard beamed and drew himself up.

"You would never guess that the Tetragrammaton lived here just six months ago."

John mutely shook his head, watching how the light danced off the water of the fountain.

"Cleric!"

John twisted at the sound of his title, and faced one of the long hallways. His mouth opened a fraction, and his hand tightened reflexively on his katana hilt.

Sweeping toward him, an entourage in black flanking her, was a tall, black-haired, green-eyed, beautiful woman. She wore black pants and boots, her hair was bound back in a long braid, and she wore the floor-length, scarlet coat of a United Kingdom Cardinal Cleric. John took a step back, his heart-rate accelerating--until he noticed that she wore small, pretty, silver earrings that danced around her cheeks. She approached him, and her red mouth worked into a smile--a type of smile that John recognized. It reminded him of his own: untrained, and somewhat deliberate.

"Good to see you." Her vivid eyes intensified as she stopped in front of him. "We have been waiting for you."

"I am not late," John stated.

"I know," she acknowledged, her dialect foreign to his ears. "But I had to fly here to speak with you, and I have been here for over three hours." She canted her head, then glanced behind her. "I...believe it is customary to shake hands upon a meeting, is it not?"

When she said this, a long-faced, solemn man stepped around from behind her--a man John recognized as Jurgen, the leader of the Resistance and newly-elected President of the Restoration. The tension between John's shoulders relaxed a bit. Jurgen gave John a placating glance, for the man had perfected the art of subtle expression, then nodded at the other Cleric.

"Yes, indeed it is."

The other Cleric faced John again, and presented her right hand.

"I am Cardinal Cleric April Weston, from the Kent sector of the Liberated United

Kingdom."

John hesitated a moment, then reached out and clasped her hand. He rarely received skin-on-skin contact from other adults--the touch sent a thrill down his arm.

"I am Restoration Cleric John Preston," he answered quietly. She barely cocked an eyebrow at him.

"And not just any Cleric," she added, dropping his hand. "You are the one who brought down DuPont, and Father--and made all this possible," she waved a hand to encompass the room. John met her gaze squarely.

"The Resistance interrupted the dose. They did the most difficult job."

Jurgen chuckled.

"He is too modest," Jurgen assured her. "Shall we head to the office?"

"No," April shook her head. "Let's walk."

"Leave us," Jurgen commanded the entourage.

John blinked in surprise. But before he could object, April had swept past him, followed closely by Jurgen, and he was forced to follow. They exited the building again, and drew more startled stares, for now the clerical appearance was even more striking. A warm wind and the noise of the street greeted them. The three trotted down the stairs, and April looked into the eyes of all the people, no matter how they shrank from her unfamiliar presence. John's brow darkened. "Do you think it is wise for us to walk so openly, Cardinal?" he asked in a low voice as both of their strides hit the sidewalk at once.

"If we hide in the old Tetragrammaton buildings, they will suspect and fear us. We have learned this where I am from," she told him. He fell into step beside her easily, for she had not broken with the discipline of her training either. Jurgen fell slightly back, as if he wished to leave them to their conversation but still listen. He had no need of another escort; no one would dare come near him while he walked with such companions.

"Yes, but they are unused to you," John countered the cardinal, peripherally observing the pedestrians hurriedly clearing the way in front of them. "Looking them in the eyes frightens them."

"You look at the ground?" the cardinal questioned. John nodded, staring at the paving about ten feet ahead of them.

"That is effective and wise, since you are a man," she told him. "It shows you to be humble, and non-dominant and non-threatening. But for a woman, it shows weakness and submission." She lifted her chin. "I am the highest-ranking official next to our Minister, and a leader--just as you are, Cleric. And in these turbulent times, I cannot afford to be weak."

John fell silent for a moment, and risked glancing up once or twice. The first time, he was greeted with the same trepidation, but the second time, he caught sight of a few smiles, and one or two cordial nods.

"They know you here, don't they Cleric?" the cardinal briefly assessed him. He shrugged briefly.

"A few of them, yes."

"It looks like a good deal more than a few. They watch you, but do not look at you the way they look at me. Some of them, I would dare say--even have affection for you--almost as much as they have for President Jurgen," she commented as she swept her confident gaze over the crowded streets. She smiled just a little. "Perhaps it is time for you to start looking up, after all."

John's brow grew even darker, and now he followed their swift feet.

"Is something bothering you, Cleric?"

The edge in her voice brought his head up to attend her.

"No, ma'am," he answered automatically, startled. "I just..." He took a breath and faced front. "I was considering how you became a cardinal."

She arched an ebony eyebrow, higher this time.

"You mean, because I am a woman?"

John's brow twitched and he tightly shook his head.

"I do not believe you are incapable," he told her. "But it was the law in this sector of Libria my entire life that women could not be Clerics."

"It was against the law in my home, as well," she informed him. "But Father was not about to pass up _anyone _who could defeat all of his cardinals in hand-to-hand combat and gun kata. Even if she was a woman."

John's eyes narrowed.

"How did you learn?"

"My father was a cardinal, and taught me everything." Her gaze grew distant. "He was later executed as a Sense Offender."

John nodded slowly, more of the tension in his back relaxing. The three of them rounded a corner and arrived at one of the small, newly-planted parks in the city. It only had two small trees and some grass, but the people were working with what they had, and the sunlight shone down into it, unadulterated. Their feet grew quiet as they trod on the grass and came to the middle of the park. There, the cardinal drew to a halt and turned, and the three of them stood facing each other.

"I was groomed my entire life, Cleric, for the task that you accomplished," the cardinal told John. "But I did not have the gift of deep feeling and sensing, as you do--which is why you succeeded, and I did not begin to sense until after the Awakening."

John briefly glanced down. She went on.

"Jurgen has told me of your skill and wisdom." She took a breath. "Which is why I came to you to ask for help."

John looked at her sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"Though the house on Ash street was our first cache to be burned," Jurgen spoke up. "It is not the very first. It has been happening all over, especially in the Kingdom, where the cardinal is from."

"Normally we would blame it on vandals, or accidents," she added. "Except for the presence of--"

"H-13," John finished, hushed. Jurgen and the cardinal nodded.

"It seems that these arsonists have spread out, now, and begun destroying any cache they can find," she told him. "My colleagues and I have begun the duty of hunting them down at home, but I want you to head up that mission here. I've come to get you started."

"Who do you suspect?" John asked, pressure building on his sternum. April met his gaze.

"They are Clerics," she answered plainly. The pressure turned to slight pain, and his jaw tightened.

"Are you sure?" John's eyebrows came together.

"They are known as Father's Firstborn--and they have gone back to taking Prozium."

John stared at her, unable to speak.

"No," he finally said, the same firm way he had spoken to Thomas. "No. What reason would they have to go back to that?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Can you think of none?"

John stood for a moment, then winced, backed up a step and turned his eyes from them, sweeping them over the sight of three children playing with a ball.

"No," he replied, but his voice was rough.

"But apparently they have," Jurgen reminded him. "And we need to know why, and who is supplying the Prozium, and somehow stop the Clerics from destroying the caches."

"You mean kill them." John looked directly at Jurgen. Jurgen sighed, and suddenly looked old.

"Perhaps."

John's frown deepened even more and he shifted, as if one of his guns was prodding him again.

"We cannot let them continue, Cleric," the cardinal said softly. "Whoever is supplying them is using the Clerics for his own purposes, I am certain. And whoever that is wishes to resume the type of control that Father kept over us for all those years." She stepped a bit closer to him. "And I hear that the painting destroyed last night was a Da Vinci."

John would not look at her, but nodded once.

"Then I must ask you to help me find the Firstborn," the cardinal pressed. "No one but a Cleric is able to hunt another Cleric."

John's forehead was taut as his throat, but he still looked up at her and spoke steadily.

"I will do what I can."

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_"No alleluia, not one hosanna_

_No song of love_

_No lullaby_..."

"What happened?" Robbie demanded without preamble. John halted just after he stepped through the threshold of his home. He glanced over to see Thomas sitting on the couch next to Lisa, flipping through one of the comics. Robbie stood on the other side of Thomas.

"Hello, Thomas," John acknowledged, taking off his katana. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you'd want to brief him, so I took the liberty of calling him up here," Robbie explained.

"Ah," John unbuttoned the top button of his coat and loosened his collar. "Well, I suppose that is acceptable. I get nervous with you two up here alone by yourselves, anyway."

"So what happened?" Lisa wondered. John entered his room and hung up his katana on its rack, then came back out to ease down onto the opposite couch.

"I had a meeting with the president and the top Cardinal of the United Kingdom."

"Oh," Robbie said in a low tone, coming over to sit next to his father. "What about?"

"The fire in the Nether this morning," John answered. Thomas leaned forward in discomfort.

"Um, shouldn't we have the kids go play or something?"

John looked at him strangely.

"What? Why?"

Thomas' eyebrows went up, and he shrugged and shook his head.

"I...don't know. This just seems like the type of thing kids shouldn't hear."

Lisa and Robbie looked at each other. John hesitated, his gaze on the floor, but Robbie spoke instead.

"We were Sense Offenders for years before the Awakening," he informed Thomas hotly. "We effectively lived in the same house with the Tetragrammaton, and had to fool _him_ every

day," Robbie jerked a thumb toward John. "And pay close attention when he finally started to feel, so that he wouldn't get caught and killed."

John stared at his son, his hard countenance suddenly becoming vulnerable.

"Okay. No problem," Thomas said quietly, catching John's expression. "Sounds like you've earned the right." He cleared his throat and settled his shoulders, giving attention back to John. "So what did the cardinal have to say?"

John did not respond right away. He was still studying his son. Finally he spoke, dragging his gaze back over to Thomas.

"She said that--"

"Wait, _she?"_ Thomas cut in. "I didn't think women were allowed to be Clerics."

John smiled tightly.

"I think she could kill you, Thomas."

A giggle escaped from Lisa before she could quell it with a hand over her mouth.

"But she said that you were right--the fires are being started by Clerics."

Thomas sat up slowly.

"Really?"

John nodded minutely.

"They're called Father's Firstborn." John swallowed and suddenly got up, moving toward the kitchen. "They've started taking Prozium again."

Thomas stared into space for a moment, his expression blank, and then he shot to his feet.

"Wait--_what?_"

Robbie also hopped up and ran around to follow John. Lisa was hot on his heels. Thomas hurried after, with barely restrained strides, and entered the white-tiled kitchen. John was pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher.

"Why would they do that?" Thomas demanded. John shook his head, taking a drink.

"The cardinal didn't say," he answered, leaning back against the counter. He set his glass down and crossed his arms.

"What are you going to do about it?" Robbie questioned. John contemplated both of his children for a moment, then lifted his eyes to Thomas.

"We have to find them," he said simply. "And we have to stop them."

Thomas' brow furrowed deeply.

"You mean we have to kill them?"

John did not say anything. He just took a deep breath, and swallowed again.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_He had had the dream again--that same dream he always had when his dose wore off in the middle of the night. It was the vision of his wife being seized by officers of the Tetragrammaton and dragged out of their home--discovered as a Sense Offender and condemned to be processed._

_Processed--a euphemism for being shoved into a incinerator. _

_The violent dream had interrupted his sleep, and so he had gotten up and paced in his room, trying to cool down and lower his heart rate before he took the dose again. It was not healthy to take it when his heart was pounding like this. _

_Finally, he had calmed sufficiently, and entered the cold bathroom. He took the tiny, glass vials of yellow liquid from inside his medicine cabinet and loaded them into the small, pistol-like dispenser. _

_Standing in front of his mirror, bare-chested, he could see the emotion flickering behind his dark brown eyes. He pressed the dispenser up against the side of his neck. He took a breath and held it. _

_He pulled the gun-like trigger. There was a thud and a small, stinging pain. Then the Prozium surged through him, and with it, an utter blankness washed through his whole being. The emotion vanished from his eyes as if it had never been there. _

John opened his eyes. He stared at the blank, dark ceiling above his bed. His forehead constricted and he groaned, rolling onto his side. He ached all over. With an absent hand, he reached up and rubbed the tender skin on his neck, beneath which he could feel a layer of scar-tissue. Chills ran up and down his spine. He still had that dispenser. He needed to go get it, drop it out the window and watch it shatter all over the--

A deafening beeping pierced the air. He jerked into a sitting position and whirled around to see that communicator on his bedside table was blinking and screeching. His heartbeat raging in his ears, he snatched up the comm and quickly pushed the button.

"What is it, Thomas?" he asked, his tone forcefully regulated.

"You need to get dressed," Thomas advised. "There's been a report of some suspicious activity in the Nether, and the president believes its the Firstborn."

John's heartbeat almost stopped. Then his mouth tensed.

"All right. I'll be down in just a few minutes."

He threw his covers off and quickly threw on a tanktop and tight shorts. He then securely strapped on his weapons harnesses and guns, then donned his black pants, boots and knee-length Cleric coat, and slid the comm into his pocket. He brushed his teeth, ran a wet comb through his hair, slicking it away from his eyes, and then silently left his room.

Upon reaching the kitchen, he snatched a pen and a piece of paper, scrawling a note for his children informing him of his whereabouts, and instructing them to stay inside the apartment and not go to play in the courtyard if he was not back by midmorning. Leaving the note on the kitchen table, he grabbed his house keys, slipped out of the apartment and locked the door behind him.

_VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV_

"What's the word?" John inquired as he met Thomas in the dimly-lit main hallway. Thomas fell into stride beside his partner and checked the ammunition of his revolver. John flinched just slightly at the sharp click it made.

"I can drive. I've found the coordinates and I know where it is." Thomas replaced his gun in its holster. "That will leave you free to get out first."

"Where are they?" John asked, pushing the doors open. Cool, night wind brushed their faces as they descended the stairs. The streets looked eerie, almost black-and-white, in the light of the street lamps.

"They're in a bombed-out cathedral not far from here," Thomas headed around the waiting car and opened the door. He glanced over the top of the vehicle at the Cleric. "Did I wake you up?"

John grunted and climbed in.

"It's five in the morning. You scared me to death."

"Sorry," Thomas apologized, turning the key and flipping the lights on. "If I hadn't gotten that call directly from Base, I wouldn't have bothered you."

"What were you doing awake?" John wondered as they began driving through the foggy lanes.

Thomas stared resolutely ahead.

"Practicing my gun kata."

It was then that John noticed that Thomas' knuckles were white on the steering wheel. John's brow furrowed.

"Thomas."

His partner glanced over. John lowered his head and looked at him pointedly.

"I'll watch out for you. All right?"

Thomas swallowed tightly, then nodded, returning his attention to the road.

"Good," he said, his light tone sounding a bit forced. "It'd be a heck of a thing to die when I'm twenty-three."

John did not reply to that. Instead, he reached inside his sleeves and pulled out the revolvers there, and swiftly checked that they were loaded. After about ten minutes, Thomas straightened.

"Okay, we're almost there," Thomas informed him. John glanced up. And he went still.

"Oh..." he whispered.

"What?" Thomas asked quickly.

"I've been here before."

"When?"

"Stop the car."

"Why?"

"Just do as I say."

Obediently, Thomas slowed to a halt and threw the car into park. John gazed fixedly out the windshield for a full minute, then gradually unbuckled, opened the door and slid out. Watching his mentor carefully, Thomas did the same.

"Don't slam the door," John whispered. Without looking at it, he pushed his own door closed so that the latch clicked quietly. Thomas followed suit. John, clasping a revolver in each hand, slowly proceeded forward.

"Stay right beside me," John instructed, and Thomas fell in next to him. Their soft-soled boots did not make much noise against the gravel, but the Nether were as silent as death, and almost as dark. Only an occasional weak street lamp glowed through the darkness, throwing creeping, half-formed shadows against the crumbling walls.

"Is this the church in the report?" John wanted to know.

"Yes."

They stood before a grand, Gothic cathedral, barren and shrouded and wrong-looking in the night. The statues in front were cracked and falling, and the elegant wooden door had been bashed in long ago. John's breathing was coming with difficulty. Every muscle threatened to lock.

"You say you've been here before?" Thomas murmured.

"Yes," John breathed, hardly moving. "Once."

A shuffling sound emitted from deep within the church that straightened both their spines.

"There's someone in there," Thomas stated. Lowering his head, John made himself start forward, Thomas behind him.

They entered, and noticed the missing ceiling. The moon and a couple stars shone down into the murkiness. Shards of colored light decorated the floor, originating from the pieces of stained glass that still remained in the windows. John could not breathe at all, now. His heart hammered unnaturally against his ribs, and shivers ran up and down his back. When he arrived in the middle of the stone sanctuary floor, he suddenly could go no further. His feet stopped and his eyes riveted on the front pew.

_"You always knew. You just couldn't bring yourself to admit it."_

_"You have to come with me. I'll do what I can to see they go easy on you."_

_"You and I both know--they never go easy."_

_"Then I'm sorry."_

Cold sweat broke out on John's forehead, and he felt all the blood drain from his face.

"What is it?" Thomas hissed.

"Partridge," John answered faintly.

"Oh, good. The one I've been waiting for." The straight, confident tones rang through the church, and John and Thomas yanked their heads around to see--a Cleric.

A man with light hair combed back and a beard, wearing a black uniform identical to

John's, stood just before the altar, hands clasped behind his back. His gray eyes cut across the distance between them, and he lifted his chin.

"Who are you?" John demanded, his voice an unsteady snarl. The Cleric canted his head.

"Don't you recognize me, Preston? You trained me yourself. I am Cleric Jonathan Herald--one of those still loyal to Father's ideals."

"You have been burning the caches," Thomas snapped. Herald regarded Thomas blankly.

"We have," he acknowledged. "And we wish to speak to Cleric Preston." He made a swift gesture with his left hand, and seven men, wearing the uniforms and helmets of a Tetragrammaton Sweeper Team, stepped out from the wings and surrounded the front half of the sanctuary. Herald lifted his right arm, revealing a revolver grasped in his hand. "Alone."

John's heart surged. He whipped around to his partner. His cry was drowned out by a gunshot. John threw his shoulder into Thomas' waist and knocked him sideways. A jet of blood splattered, warm, across his cheek. The two men clattered down between the pews and hit the flagstones hard. John instantly hauled himself to a sitting position, keeping Thomas down beneath him, shielding him.

"Tom!" John gasped, his breath quivering in panic as he hurriedly ran his palms over Thomas' tunic, trying to feel where his partner had been hit. He could not see--they were

swallowed almost completely by darkness. Then his hands encountered startling, warm liquid.

Abruptly, Tom grabbed John's wrists in a firm, living hold, diverting them from his chest.

"I'm fine, brother," Tom said through his teeth. "It grazed my shoulder."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Get up. They're coming--I can see their feet."

John shakily picked up his revolvers and replaced them in their holsters, then slowly stood. He glanced down. His pale hands were illuminated in a shaft of moonlight--they were covered in Tom's blood. His fingers shook.

"Make sure he is dead," Herald commanded. The Sweepers--three on the right, three on the left, and one straight ahead--took three deliberate paces toward them.

Scarlet fury blared across John's vision, and his heavy guns snapped into his hands before any of them could blink. He took one step, then leaped forward and planted himself in a bent stance, directly between the closest two Sweepers. They all brought their guns to bear on him, pulling their triggers and unleashing a hailstorm of fire.

It did not matter.

John lifted his arms and pointed his guns straight out to either side of him. He bowed his head and fired once with each. Fluidly, he ducked and spun, avoiding the crossfire from the farthest. While he spun, he crossed his arms across his chest and fired once to his left and once to his far right. He raised himself and fired twice, once off to his far left, the other to his direct right. Their constant, futile machine-gun fire rattled and hammered against the stones, a blinding chaos surrounding the ruthless, dance-like efficiency of the Cleric. Three more steps forward. He knelt down. A volley missed his head. He delivered a single shot to the chest of the last Sweeper. With a gasp and a spasm, the man thudded to the ground in a heap at Herald's feet.

Silence fell. It had taken five seconds. John arose, aiming directly at Herald's chest.

And he was not even breathing hard.

Herald glanced around at the bodies of his fallen, then returned his passionless gaze to John.

"Quick work," he nodded. "I suppose that's why they call you the best."

"How _dare _you shoot at my partner?" John gritted savagely. A scuffling noise and a grunt behind him alerted him to Thomas' struggling to get up off the floor and sitting heavily down in a pew, but John did not budge. Herald glanced past John.

"I am sorry I didn't shoot straight enough before." Herald looked back at John. "Shall I finish it for you--save you the trouble?"

John's grip on his revolver tightened.

"If you even move for your gun," John threatened. "I'll shoot you right through the

head."

Herald leveled a stare at him.

"Just like Partridge?"

John's eyes flickered.

"What?"

"Errol Partridge," Herald clarified. "Certainly you haven't forgotten _him, _even if you don't remember _me_." Herald slipped around John's gun and descended the stairs of the altar, his hands behind his back again. "He was your partner for several years, correct? I read your report."

John turned, trying to keep his gun trained on the man, but his hand twitched. Herald stood just to the side of the first pew, facing it, as if looking into the eyes of an invisible man sitting there.

"You had found evidence that he was a Sense Offender," Herald went on. "And you discovered him here in this church. You came in, stood before him, right here, and spoke to him while he was reading a book of Yeats poetry." Herald took his gun out of its place, cocked it, and pointed it at the invisible man. "Patridge moved for his weapon--and you shot him through his book." Herald suddenly pulled the trigger. The shot blared against every hard surface like thunder, flashily splintering the pew.

John staggered backward, as if stricken. His eyes widened and his muscles shuddered, but some remaining shred of discipline made him keep his gun up. The echoes died away through the Nether. Herald turned his head to him. "You knew he was not going to try and kill you. He was just forcing your hand. You murdered him." Herald faced him squarely now, putting his gun back. He watched John carefully.

"And then, of course, there was Mary."

John's vision blurred. His throat closed and tightened, and pain began needling through his chest.

"You broke into her house," Herald stepped toward him. "You discovered her hidden EC-10. You arrested her as a Sense Offender. You interrogated her. Andyou delivered her up for execution."

John could not meet his eyes. He looked anywhere but at this man--at the floor, the doors, the fallen dead. He let out a rattling breath. His trembling arm lowered.

"And I hear you even stood there and watched her be incinerated."

John, shell-shocked, felt his shoulders go limp. If Herald had hit him in that moment, he would have collapsed like a rag doll. He turned his face to the side, but he saw nothing. Herald leaned toward him.

"I see that you are no different than the other Clerics," he said flatly. "So don't sit up there on your high horse and pretend you are better than the rest of us. You have nightmares that torture you--memories you can't erase. You see the eyes of the people you have shot in cold blood. You hear the screams of those you have sent to the incinerator." Herald's voice lowered. "You _know _how gut-wrenching, vulgar and base emotion _is_. Your emotions are your captors, Preston! What freedom have you gained?" He stepped back, and shook his head. "No, soon you will come to realize what the rest of us have: returning to the dose is the only way you are ever going to be able to live with yourself." Herald withdrew into the shadows. "I will keep my eye out for you. If you ever want to talk...I'll be here." And he vanished.

John's breathing hurt him. His body had reached the edge of his control--soon he would start to shake uncontrollably. Paralyzed, he stared blankly at the scarred communion table.

Two hands gripped him from behind; one on his upper arm, one on his shoulder.

"Cleric. Cleric!" The hands shook him. "_John_."

John turned his head and saw Thomas, blood running down his sleeve, his eyes brilliant in a beam of moonlight. Thomas' voice softened.

"Let's go."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_Kyrie eleison_

Lord, have mercy

_The cathedral was dark, except for soft shafts of moonlight and lamplight filtering in through the broken south windows. He strode slowly down the center aisle, the dust of the floor covering his shining shoes and the hems of his pants. _

_Partridge sat there, on the front pew, his feet stretched out into the aisle. He held a book up to the meager light. He did not raise his head as John approached him--as the Cleric's shadow fell upon him. John read the cover of the book: The Poetry of Yeats. _

_"You always knew. You just couldn't bring yourself to admit it." Partridge's voice was soft and calm, and he finally lifted his eyes up to John's. John did not reply. Partridge's gaze drifted back down to the page. He read out loud._

_"_But I, being poor, have only my dreams.

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams." _Partridge glanced up. "I assume you dream, Preston?"_

_John shifted, just a hair._

_"You have to come with me," he stated. "I'll do what I can to see they go easy on you." _

_Partridge, his eyes tired, smiled wryly._

_"You and I both know--they never go easy."_

_John took a breath._

_"Then I'm sorry."_

_Partridge shook his head once._

_"No, you're not." He scanned John's face thoughtfully. "You don't even know the meaning. It's just a vestigial word for a feeling you've never felt." Partridge lowered the book a little, and a light entered his eyes. "Don't you see, Preston--it's gone. Everything that makes us what we are, traded away."_

_"There's no war," John snapped. "No murder."_

_Partridge raised his eyebrows and spoke in a low tone._

_"What is it you think we do?"_

_John's jaw tightened._

_"You're wrong. You've been with me; you've seen how it can be. Jealousy and rage. Anger. Hate."_

_Partridge nodded._

_"A very heavy cost." He raised his book again. His hand moved to his lap. John saw a revolver lying there. He swiftly raised his own gun, pointing it at Partridge's face. The man regarded him for just another moment. _

_"I pay it gladly." Partridge raised his book, cutting off their eye contact. His thumb cocked his weapon._

_John fired. Papers exploded upward. Partridge tumbled back._

John thrashed violently, but he could not wake up.

_ He ran down a vast, circular, cement tunnel ringed with lights. He ran as hard as he possibly could. His feet beat the concrete, wind rushed past his face, his heart thudded and his breathing sent sharp pangs through his gut. He ran faster._

_When he approached a guard station, he hardly slowed. Frantically, he extended his arm, holding out his ID for the guard to see._

_"Has the incineration gone through yet?"_

_"It's going through now," was the answer. John swore under his breath, his vision clouding, as he stuffed his ID back in his pocket and pressed his legs for even more speed._

_He rounded one more corner, and then--_

_He saw her. _

_A slender form with gently curling, tumbling rust-colored hair, and wearing a long, dark sleeveless dress._

_She was entering the incineration chamber. The door closed behind her._

_"Wait!" John cried at the guards, reaching toward her, his chest nearly splitting. "Wait! Tetragrammaton--I need to speak to that woman!"_

_"Sorry, sir. The incineration is already going through. If we force the doors now the turbines will explode at surface level."_

No_. _

_He skidded to a halt, his eyes widening._

_No, no, no. _

_A tremor ran through his whole body. He froze there in that hard tunnel, staring through the T-shaped gap in the door into that hellish chamber. She was gazing back at him._

_He could barely see one of her sapphire eyes, a touch of her ivory cheek, and the corner of her soft mouth. He could not look away, he could not tear himself from her--not when only one thread of discipline was keeping him from flinging those doors open, taking her in his arms and perishing with her in the flames. _

_He abruptly became aware of the mechanical countdown ringing through the room, but he did not turn. The pain in his chest--his heart--became excruciating. He stayed right where he was, holding her eyes. She needed him. She needed him to be her anchor. And he needed her to know, without doubt, how much he--_

_"Turbines firing."_

_The blinding flames swallowed her._

John sat up, his chest heaving. He glanced around his room. He knew where he was.

"Oh, God," he wailed softly, sliding off his bed and thudding to the floor in a sitting position. With a quavering hand, he reached up to his nightstand and picked up Mary's satin ribbon and pressed it against his face with both hands. The perfume on the ribbon was fading.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Clerics knew the night--they understood darkness and shadows. They memorized every sector of the city in their basic training--they could walk its streets blindfolded.They fought best in the pitch black. Thus, John needed no light to find his way to the steps of this great pillared building, even at four in the morning.

His long black coat whispered across the tops of the steps as he gradually ascended, staring at the Tetragrammaton Hall of Destruction--the empty, circular building that still housed the incinerators in its depths.

No one ventured to this section of the city, even in the broad daylight. Weeds were beginning to grow between the cracks in the stones, and the pillars appeared dour and bitter in the gloom. The only sound was John's footsteps.

He drew to a halt on the topmost landing--the landing where it had happened.

The landing where he had stood when his heart broke.

Gazing down at the squares of paving, his breaths quaking in his lungs, he knew--nothing had changed since that moment.

Weakly, he sank down onto his knees and bowed his head to the ground like a pilgrim in Rome, wrapping his arms around himself. His forehead met the coolness of the cement, his eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders faltered. He did not weep. He couldn't. He was strangled.

He stayed this way for a long time, then leaned to the side, turned and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, glancing at his gloved hands. He opened his right hand to reveal Mary's ribbon, and fingered it, but could feel nothing through his gloves. He did not move to take them off.

For another hour, he sat, gazing over the city, seeing none of it. The birds began to sing, but he was deaf to their voices. All he heard was the scream he had never uttered.

At long last, he stiffly hauled himself to his feet and headed slowly back down the stairs. That same, nearly literal pain ran up and down beneath his ribs and pulsed through his veins.

His feet hit the street. He stopped. For a moment, he closed his eyes, feeling the breeze against the skin of his face. He lifted his head and put the ribbon in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk again, purposefully, toward a bridge that led to the Nether.

VVVVVVVVVVV

He gazed up at the cathedral--the cathedral of his dreams; the cathedral where Thomas had nearly been shot a week ago.

John kept his exterior calm, though the muscles in of his stomach, shoulders and back quivered slightly. He clamped his jaw shut, and stepped inside.

He swept his gaze back and forth, searching the corners of the sanctuary. After a moment's hesitation, he took a breath to call out a name--then stopped in his tracks.

Someone was sitting in the front pew.

He could barely glimpse knee-high boots, and the back of an ebony head. The head turned, just slightly, but did not look at him.

It was Cardinal April Weston.

She gradually turned her scarlet-clad body, so that she was sitting the exact way Partridge had, and in her hand she held a small book. John stared at her, his feet rooted. She drew a breath in and read out loud, her tones rippling warmly through the darkness.

"_When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals--one on his right, the other on his left." _She reached up and ran her thumb gently along the page. Her voice quieted._ "Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing_.'"

She raised her head and met his eyes with her emerald ones, and gave him a small smile.

"You expected to find Cleric Jonathan Herald here, didn't you?"

John hung his head, unable to look at her.

"I thought you might," she said. He heard her shut the book.

"How did you know?" John managed, his eyes flicking up for a moment.

"I spoke with Thomas," she replied. "And then I secured the area the very next night, and have come here to read ever since, waiting for you."

This brought his head up, and his brow furrowed.

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"I wanted to speak with you before you did something that you would regret once you were in your right mind again."

John said nothing. April considered the leather binding of her book, running her fingers against the edges of the cover.

"This is probably common knowledge..." she said slowly. "But my husband was a sense offender. I shot him in the heart." She paused a moment, and the breath she took next was slightly unsteady. "The last thing he said to me was that he loved me." She rose to her feet and turned toward the altar. "I had not done anything to deserve that from him." Silently, her scarlet coat flowing behind her, she ascended the steps and approached a tall, brass figurine that sat on the communion table. It was a statuette of a man whose hands and feet were nailed to crossed beams. It was the man from the book.

"There is a lot to be said for forgiveness, Cleric," April murmured, delicately touching the nail-pierced feet. "And for being given second chances that we have done nothing to deserve."

Silence reigned for a moment.

"Who is Jesus?" John asked hoarsely.

She faced him again, and gifted him with another smile. Stepping down from the altar, she came up to him and handed him the little book.

"Look him up," she suggested. "But later. Right now, I want to show you something. Follow me."

And she strode back out of the church, not looking back. After a beat, John put the book into his pocket and trailed after her.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Though the drive lasted nearly half an hour, neither of them said anything as April directed the car through the streets of the Nether, then the city, and then out of it. Silently, they watched the horizon glow as the sun came up directly in front of them. Finally, April spoke.

"Do you remember the first sunrise you saw as a Sense Offender?"

"Yes," John answered. That was all they needed to completely understand each other.

The road began to wind, and hulks of trees bordered it. John squinted. If he was not mistaken, he caught sight of several buds on the ends of the skeletal branches--and the earth was greening up as well, as if baby grass was attempting to spring.

The sky began to open up above them, flowing from black to deep navy, and then to a fresh, towering blue, crowned in the east by the blooming sun. John leaned forward.

"What is that on the hill?" he questioned.

"Our destination."

It was a huge, multi-level, brown brick building, with hundreds of square windows. But that was not what caught John's attention. Surrounding the building was a beautiful garden, filled with shrubs, paths, young trees, a single stone fountain and hundreds of flowers. The dew glittered like jewels adorning all of it. He had never seen anything of the kind.

April stopped the car and got out. It took him a moment, but John soon followed. A fresh wind greeted him, and he could not resist taking a deep breath of it. Somehow, in spite of all the city's efficiency and sanitation, the air was cleaner out here.

"What is this place?" John asked. The cardinal began walking toward the main door, her feet crunching on the gravel.

"It's an outpatient care facility that the Restoration initiated," she said over her shoulder. "I have come here a few times since the Awakening, and to places like it." She faced front. "It helps clear my head."

John walked after her, soon catching up and flanking her. Birds twittered within the trees, and flitted back and forth amidst the branches. John had never heard such a racket, but it was not unpleasant.

April pushed a button next to the tall, white door, and a screen above the button flipped to life. A dark-skinned, middle-aged woman wearing a white uniform gazed out at them. She beamed.

"Hello, Cardinal Weston! We weren't expecting you!"

"I just thought I'd drop in for a visit while I was in the country, Gena. I brought a guest, if that's all right."

"And the guest's name?" Gena requested, fetching a clipboard.

"Restoration Cleric John Preston," April informed her. Gena looked up quickly.

"Oh--him! Of course, of course, come right in."

John glanced at April sideways, but she did not acknowledge him. The lock on the door clicked, and she stepped forward and entered. John stepped after her.

They entered a long, brightly-lit, white hallway that somehow did not seem so stark as those of the apartment buildings. Gena came out of a nearby office and greeted them.

"As you know, all weapons are to be checked at the door," Gena instructed. John stared at the cardinal as she obediently stripped herself of all six of her guns and laid them on a small table. April turned to him and cocked her head.

"Well?"

John cleared his throat, and slowly began removing his weapons, careful to keep them separate from April's. The two women watched as he took the guns out of his boots with obvious reluctance, set them down, then straightened stiffly.

"There," he stated. Gena chuckled and April hid a smile.

"Now, don't be difficult, hon," Gena chastised. She nodded at April. "You're free to roam around wherever you wish--I just ask that you speak quietly, so as not to disturb the patients trying to sleep."

"We will be on our best behavior," April assured her, then started down the hall. John followed, glancing back several times at his weapons, until they rounded a corner and he could no longer see them.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

"Why was this place established so far out of the city?" John questioned as they ascended a winding staircase, his gloved hand sliding on the railing.

"It's been in business since before the Awakening," April replied. "At first, it was a hospital for members of the Underground, and now, since the more sophisticated hospitals in the cities can be used, it has been converted into a place where people can go to heal."

John's brow furrowed.

"Heal from what?"

They arrived at a door, and April opened it. Its hinges squeaked. John stared at it in surprise. None of the doors in the city squeaked. April laughed lightly and they proceeded through.

"Heal from what?" John repeated.

"Shh," April put a finger to her lips. John started, then noticed that many of the room doors were open, but it was very quiet.

"They're all still asleep," she answered in a whisper. They continued on, treading softly. "Some of the patients here are recovering from an adverse reaction to withdrawing from the Prozium--their bodies had become addicted to it, and the absence of the dose made them very ill. Others are orphans because their mothers died in childbirth as a result of the Prozium causing a malfunction, and their fathers discarded them. And still others, though very few, because the technology is recent, are survivors of the incinerator."

John's legs stopped working. April halted and faced him. It took him a full minute to be able to speak.

"What?"

She nodded.

"A team of Underground scientists and technicians developed a system of trapdoors and ventilation and such to rescue people inside the incinerators. They dug beneath the Hall of Destruction and worked at night. It took them a full two years, or so they tell me, until it was finished. They began attempting rescues about a month before the Awakening." April winced. "The first few were not successful--a large part of the system relied on human timing. But after a while, they got better. And actually, about two weeks before the Awakening was when their system was nearly perfect. The trick was that, since there was a gap in the door, the guards had to see flames go up around the person. So, for just a split second, the person was surrounded by fire before he was whisked away, extinguished, and brought to the hospital, then here, for his burns to be treated."

John just stared at her blankly.

"People...survived?" he rasped. She nodded again.

"In fact, their most successful case so far lives on this floor. Would you like to see?"

John's feet moved automatically in the direction April led him. Five steps. Ten steps. Fifteen...twenty...

"They're very proud of this one. They told me that the technician operating this pull was brilliant," April informed him. "His timing was perfect. The flames avoided the face, chest and back, and only caught the legs and arms."

She stopped in front of one of the doors, and gestured inside.

"In there."

He stood just to the side of the door. A beam of sunlight spread across the threshold. Cautiously, he stepped into it, and gazed into the room.

It was a plain dwelling, white walled and white floored, like everywhere else. A light pink dresser stood in the far corner, next to the eastern window. The sun glowed through the lace curtains, and played across the bed directly between the window and the door.

John saw the bed, and everything else vanished.

A woman lay there on her side, her back to him. Her curves were draped with a soft, yellow blanket. Long, deep-rust hair floated over her pillow, shining like fire in the sunlight. Without accounting for it, John stepped into the room.

"Preston, I don't think you should go in..." April warned. John did not even hear her. He moved silently around to the foot of the bed, his shocked senses absorbing everything. He crept closer and grasped the metal rail at the foot. He gazed down at her.

The skin of her face was like porcelain, her cheeks flushed with healthy color. His eyes caressed her forehead, her dark, expressive eyebrows, her well-bred nose, her long-lashed, sleeping eyes, and her strong, velvet mouth. Her slender arms were wrapped in bandages all the way down to the backs of her hands, which lay delicately on the sheets.

He knew this woman. He knew her with every fiber of his being--had long ago memorized every feature of her face.

All his breath pressed out of his chest, as if forced by a great weight, and his eyes swam. His hands tightened on the rail to keep him from falling.

Mary.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths_

_Enwrought with gold and silver light_

_I'd spread the gold and silver cloths under your feet..."_

"Cleric?" April murmured. John did not move. His lips parted and his eyes shone. He seemed about to speak, but then he swallowed. His mouth opened and he tried again.

"I know this woman," he said haltingly. "Her name is--" His throat spasmed closed, he blinked, and the skin around his eyes tightened as if a thorn was stabbing into his hand. He stopped for a moment, then ran his eyes over the woman's hair, her face, her shoulders. "Mary," he whispered, his expression sharpening. He sucked air in. "Mary O'Brien."

"You know her?" April took a step in, speaking in a hushed voice. John nodded minutely."I thought..." His brow knotted. "She was dead." He lifted his startling eyes to April's, just for a moment, then returned them to the woman lying asleep.

"Shall we wake her?" April asked.

"No," John stepped back suddenly from the bed. Mary stirred. John watched her every move, as if captive.

"No," he breathed. "I...no." He swallowed hard. "I...Can I come back?"

April surveyed his face, then nodded.

"Certainly."

John stood there for several more minutes, his eyes distant. Then, his gaze drifted around the room, assessing the walls.

"This room is blank," he observed quietly. "She doesn't like it."

"How do you know?"

"I know," he answered. He gave Mary one more lingering look, then moved toward the door. "Let's go."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_Three weeks later..._

Purple twilight was falling over the hills as John drove down the country roads alone. He sat back, one gloved hand on the steering wheel, and gazed out over the land that was steadily becoming beautiful and alive again.

He slowed as he pulled up in front of the outpatient facility's gardens, then parked and got out. The air was full of the sweet scent of old-fashioned roses. He stopped for just a moment to inhale it, then opened the backseat door of the car and pulled out a small paper bag. After slamming the door shut, he made his way with even strides up the gravel walk and to the door. He reached up and pressed the button. The screen came on. John glanced up to see Gena's face.

"Hello Gena--it's me," he smiled a little. She beamed.

"My goodness, you again Mr. Preston," she laughed. He allowed himself a small chuckle as well.

"Come on in," she invited, and the lock clicked. He easily pushed the door open and stepped inside. Gena emerged from the office, looking expectant.

"Weapons check?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head.

"No, I'm just dropping this off for the patient in 311," he replied, holding out the bag.

"Oh, what have you brought her this time?" Gena wondered, taking it from him. He shrugged.

"You can look at it."

Gently, Gena unrolled the top of the bag and reached inside, then pulled out a small snow globe. Inside the globe stood a tiny Italian cathedral the colors of hard candy. On the base of the globe was carved the word _Firenze--_Florence.

"Ahh, it's beautiful Mr. Preston," Gena admired. "She will love it." She glanced up at him. "The other ladies are starting to envy Miss O'Brian. You've brought her a present almost every night, and her room is getting to be the prettiest of all of them--especially after the addition of those ballerina pictures last week."

John smiled.

"I hope she likes it." He canted his head. "How is she doing?"

"Well, she is going in tomorrow morning for surgery on her arms--reconstructive, cosmetic surgery, you know. Nothing is really _wrong_, but the fire damaged her skin so badly," Gena shook her head. "They're going to do what they can to help her get back to normal."

John nodded solemnly.

"Thank you, Gena. Goodnight." He turned and moved to open the door.

"Won't you come up and see her?" Gena invited. John looked at her for a moment.

"No, thank you."

"She's been asking for you."

John stopped. He turned back.

"She has?"

Gena nodded, putting the globe back in the sack.

"Yes, though she doesn't know your name. You never gave me permission to tell her, so I've kept that to myself, but I believe that, even though she lights up every time you bring something," Gena smiled wryly. "She's starting to lose her patience with you."

John stood there, his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. He lifted his head.

"Should I come tomorrow evening?"

Gena's face brightened.

"Yes! She should be back around four in the afternoon, so her anesthetic should be wearing off enough by the evening for you to be able to talk with her."

John swallowed hard.

"Yes. I'll...I'll be here tomorrow. Goodnight, Gena."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Where have you been?"

"Nowhere."

"Yes you have. I know that, even though you're a very good liar," Thomas retorted, his hands on his hips as he stared up and down the shelves in the large market storage room. John descended the couple stairs, swept past Thomas and turned left, heading down to the section where the books were housed.

"I tried to get you on the communicator earlier, but you didn't have it with you," Thomas told him. "Then I asked your kids, and they said you'd gone out, but they didn't know where you went." Thomas held up a paper in his left hand and scanned it. "Aaaand...we're missing another snow globe."

"I bought it," John told him, running his finger along the bottoms of the spines of books.

"For Lisa?"

"No."

Thomas stared at down the row at him.

"You know, I hate to say it, but it's really hard to have a conversation with you."

John gave a half smile and pulled a thin blue book out: _Shakespeare's Sonnets._

"Why did you need to contact me?" John questioned.

"Cardinal Weston wants to talk with us as soon as possible," Thomas answered, inspecting a napkin shelf right in front of him. "She thinks she has some leads on the location of the Firstborn's base on this continent. She says it's not very far from here--about a hundred miles or so, but the roads are tricky. She's also got some intel about part of a Prozium plant that may have been been restarted and could be supplying them with their dose. She may want to get a team together soon to go check it out."

"Good," John nodded, turning a page of his book, reading it in a thoughtful whisper.

"_Let me not to the marriage of true minds _

_Admit impediments. Love is not love _

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove;_

_O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,_

_ that looks on tempests and is never shaken._ "

Thomas approached him and stood by his side, his eyebrow raised.

"Did you even hear me?"

John glanced up and nodded.

"Mhum." He looked back at the book. Thomas folded his arms.

"Listen, not that it's a _bad _thing or anything...but why are you all of a sudden smiling, and collecting pretty stuff that's not for your daughter and--" he gestured to the book. "And reading _poetry?"_

John looked up, and for the first time, gave Thomas a genuine, unadulterated smile.

"It's Mary," he told him. "She's alive."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

John spent all of the next day with his children, playing in the park near their apartment complex. Much of the time, he just watched them from a bench, but Lisa finally coaxed him into playing a game of catch with the two of them. That drew quite a few stares--a Cleric playing catch with a bright red ball. But whenever he caught someone looking at him strangely, John just grinned at him, and the kids laughed out loud when the person nearly fell over himself as a result.

But as the sun began to set, John hefted Lisa up onto his shoulders and they trooped home. Once he deposited them in the apartment, he deliberately kissed them both, gave them last minute instructions about not opening the door for anyone but himself or Thomas, and about the supper they were to heat up, then picked up the book of Shakespeare's Sonnets and left.

The drive seemed to take no time at all. It felt like just a matter of moments and he was standing in front of the facility again. Gena let him in, came out of her office, and said in that same hopeful tone:

"Weapons check?"

And he favored her with a grin.

"Yes, Gena. I don't mind if I do." And he took off all of his guns, and left them on the table. Gena patted his shoulder and smiled knowingly.

"You know where she is."

And he started down the hall to the staircase.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Her door was open. He could see that from his vantage point, though he could not see inside. His footsteps slowed and his stomach tightened. He stopped just to the side of the entrance, and for a full minute just stood there, listening.

He could hear her breathing. It was deep and even, which told him she was sleeping again. An odd sensation crossed his sternum, and he stepped across the threshold--

--into a room much changed.

A handmade rug lay on the tile floor; pictures of dancers and green meadows adorned the walls; a small writing desk and chair sat in the corner; a lace doilie covered the top of the dresser, as did three glass ladies with flowing dresses, a lamp, a music box, and the snow globe of Florence. The bed was the same, but next to it stood a little nightstand, with another lamp which was lit. And Mary lay on the bed on her back, her head tilted toward him, her bandaged arms draped across her chest, her hand loosely resting on a little book that said _Beatrix Potter_.

The light of the lamp softened her features even more, and for a long while, John was held motionless where he stood. He knew he could not bring himself to wake her. But neither could he leave.

Finally, he stepped over to the writing chair, picked it up carefully, set it down at her bedside and eased down onto it, setting the book on her bed and leaning his elbows on his knees.

He studied her face. It did not change how beautiful she was, but she was tired. He could just tell. His gaze slowly drifted over her bandaged arms. Peripherally, he caught sight of a glass of water on her nightstand, along with a bottle of painkiller. A knot lodged in his throat as he returned to considering her arms.

What would that have been like--feeling white-hot flames slice into one's bare skin, even just for a moment?

_How long have you been off the dose? How long?! _His own fearsome voice echoed through his mind as he recalled the day of her arrest, when he had fiercely grabbed her, thrown her down her hall, twisted those same, soft-skinned arms sharply behind her, and forced her to face her mirror. _Just look at you!_

John's shoulders tightened as his eyes returned to her face. His brows jerked together as a sudden pain jolted up through his stomach and stuck somewhere behind his heart. He hung his head.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, barely audible.

"Hello, Cleric."

He stood up so fast he nearly knocked the chair backwards. As it was, the backs of his legs banged it and scooted it noisily backward. He retreated, his eyes wide, almost as far as the writing desk.

She was looking at him.

Her sapphire eyes burned through the space between them. However, their fire was not angry, but alive. She took a breath, and adjusted her russet head on the pillow so that her upper body inclined slightly. She smiled a little.

"I never thought I would see _you_ again."

He could not reply--in fact, his jaw clenched. His heart hammered.

"Forgive me for not sitting up more," she gingerly set her book off to her side, wincing slightly. "But I am still a little out of sorts from my surgery."

John's head lowered a little. She glanced around the room, then addressed him again.

"So...are you the one who has been bringing me all these things?"

Briefly, he nodded, then studied the rug.

"Why?" she asked.

He raised his head, and his eyes stung. His breathing was starting to come unsteadily. She gazed at him steadily, softly.

"If it's because you feel guilty, Cleric, it's wasted." She paused. "I'm already the one who should be grateful to you."

He blinked rapidly, to clear his vision, then furrowed his brow.

"What?" he asked roughly. She chuckled, but very quietly, and a smile flickered across her lips.

"Ever since I opened my eyes, and realized that I was still alive," she told him, her voice strong but gentle. "All I've wanted was to thank you--the Cleric who chased after me." She tilted her head slightly. "The Cleric who stood there and made me look at him through that gap in the door, telling me not to be afraid--letting me know that he would have rather been in my place."

She gradually lifted her hand, palm up, in invitation. John gazed at it, shattered. Very slowly, achingly, he stepped toward her and offered his right hand. She took hold of the fingers of his glove, and with the assistance of her other hand, which trembled because of her injury, she tugged the glove off and set it down. The air of the room felt cold against his skin.

She raised her hand, palm up again, and touched her fingertips to his. Then, she slid her hand up and enfolded his in a warm, quiet grip. Her left hand wandered over to join, her thumb meandering over the tops of his fingers and the back of his hand. John's eyes stung again, and tears nearly came. Her hands stilled, enveloping his, and she glanced up.

"What is your name?"

"John Preston," he breathed. She smiled.

"I'm Mary O'Brien," she answered, her thumb stroking his knuckles. "Nice to meet you."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"_Had I the blue and dim dark cloths of night_

_And cloths of light and half light_

_I'd spread the cloths of night and light_

_Under your feet_..."

"John, where are you?"

John knew the instant he picked up the comm off the passenger seat that something was wrong.

"What is it, Thomas?" he demanded.

"Where have you been?" Thomas' voice was filled with static.

"I saw Mary," John answered. "But I'm coming home now--they were turning the lights off in her wing and I--"

"We've been attacked."

John slammed on the breaks and stopped in the middle of the road. His heart lurched sickeningly. When Thomas spoke, he could hear random shouts and crashes in the background.

"_What?_" His hold tightened on the comm.

"It was the Firstborn."

"How do you know?"

"I don't have time to explain right now--we've kind of got a situation here. Just get here as fast as you can. Disciple out."

The signal buzzed and cut out. John threw the comm down on the seat beside him, stomped his foot down on the gas and took off in the direction of the city.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

At first, the towering apartment building looked the same in the darkness as it always did. But then, as he pulled up to park, John noticed wisps of black smoke oozing out of the second story south windows, lit hauntingly by a street lamp.

Swearing, his pulse thundering in his ears, he leaped out of the car and took the white stairs two at a time. He flung the door open and raced down the marble hallway, his coat billowing behind him.

He flew up the stairs and pelted down another hallway--only to slow at the sight he beheld.

The wide corridor was filled with about fifty people, their clothes and faces soiled with cinders and ash. Some of them were wet up to their knees, others were blotched with fire extinguisher foam. They sat on the floor, which was blackened with charcoal dust, or stood, staring at nothing. The air reeked of H-13. John began to walk again, a poison filling his blood.

Black dust clouded around his feet as he made his way toward the charred entryway of the EC-10 storage room. He stopped in the doorway and stood, his bare right hand closing into a fist.

It had all burned. Everything that they had recovered and had not yet sold or circulated sat in ruined, smoldering, unrecognizable heaps on the floor. The charred shelves hung crookedly off the walls, their fragile contents smashed between them. John descended the two steps and entered. He sank up to his ankles in murky water--water that had come from the overhead sprinkler system. But he knew too well how potent H-13 was. It could not be quenched with water. It would burn until everything that had absorbed it was reduced to cinders. The grim room was dark, and stank terribly.

John glanced over to see both Thomas and Cardinal Weston treading through the wreckage, the hem of the cardinal's coat soaking up the grime. Thomas' hand was bandaged, and both of them were covered in soot.

"What happened?" John pressed, sloshing over to them. They lifted their heads wearily.

"Like I said--the Firstborn," Thomas sighed, running his good hand through his hair. John cast a helpless glance around at all the ruin.

"Thomas, I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been here. I should have--"

Thomas shook his head.

"No--it was better that you weren't."

"What do you mean?"

April and Thomas made eye contact, and then the cardinal handed John a piece of paper. It had been printed from a computer, and read:

_You have clearly rejected our suggestion. We have no choice but to punish you as a Sense Offender, and destroy the EC-10 you are holding illegally. -Jonathan Herald, and the Officers and Clerics of Father's Tetragrammaton Firstborn_

"How did they get in?" John asked, his eyes fixed on the paper.

"The pass code used to open one of the service doors is traceable back to a Cleric named Levi Marland--Jonathan Herald's partner," the cardinal said faintly, seeming suddenly pale. John stared at her, going stiff.

"They had access to this entire building?"

They both nodded.

"For how long?" he pressed.

Thomas shrugged.

"We don't know yet. Since the security alarms didn't go off until after the fire was started, they could have been in here for several minutes."

John let go of the paper. He spun, splashed to the door, then skidded out into the hall and ran as hard as he could back the way he had come, his wet coat slapping his legs. Bypassing the elevator, he leaped up the stairs several at a time, hit the carpet of his own floor and took advantage of the traction to force his legs to top speed.

He saw it long before he got there--his shattered apartment door and the scorched carpet before it.

"_Lisa!_" The agonized call tore from his throat even as he sprinted. "_Robbie!_" He swung around his doorframe and leaped inside.

His apartment had been ransacked. The cushions of his couches had been ripped open, his plates and glasses were smashed on the floor, the tables had been upturned, and the few pictures that had hung on the walls had been thrown down, their frames broken and crushed. The curtains were jaggedly ripped.

"Lisa!" he cried again, acute pangs shooting through his chest and choking him. "Robbie! Jack!" He kicked through the debris toward the kids' bedrooms. The door of Lisa's room was broken in half. John went cold. "Lisa!" his voice broke and he shoved his way inside.

Her room had been destroyed. Most of her toys were gone, her mattress was torn open, her drawers flung out. John's eyes fixed on a pile of shattered ceramic on her floor--the little black horse.

He lunged through the hall to Robbie's room and found things in a similar state of disaster.

But his children were not there.

He left Robbie's room and began screaming their names without restraint, throwing aside a table that had been tossed into the hall. His own bedroom had been equally traumatized--all the books in his small bookshelf had been shredded, his nightstand tipped, and his sheets sliced.He heard a noise; just a small shuffling sound, coming from the other room. He stormed back into Robbie's room, his coat fluttering.

"John?" Thomas jumped through the front door.

"Preston, where are you?" the cardinal spoke this time. Thomas and April hurried through the sitting room, down the hall and into Robbie's room--to find John kneeling in the far corner, suddenly and abnormally still. His broad back was to them, his head bowed. The others slowly approached him, and saw him protectively caressing the dark, furry head of his dog. The prone animal had been shot in the shoulder and was bleeding badly. The dog was whining softly, and looking up at John pleadingly.

"John?" Thomas asked again.

"They took them." John said shortly. His head tilted minutely. "What were you doing, Thomas, that you couldn't send someone up here?"

"I...I was helping put out the fire--" Thomas stammered.

"Books and lamps and tablecloths," John's deadly voice sliced, but he did not move or look at him. "What do you think those are worth compared to my children?"

Thomas was stricken.

"Cleric," the cardinal said evenly, stepping toward him. "The Firstborn came here first. They didn't burn this place, because it would have tripped the fire alarms. They came here, took the children, went down and burned the storage room and left." She lowered her head at him. "There was no way Thomas would have known."

Thomas looked the other way. John's face went blank. He gently slid his arms under his dog, cradling him. Stalwartly, he rose to his feet and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" the cardinal demanded.

"Taking care of my dog."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Thomas kicked the front door open and stormed outside, hurrying down several steps before uttering a strangled curse and raking both hands through his hair. He sat down heavily, letting out a rushed breath, then rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head.

The door clicked open behind him, and quiet footsteps sounded against the steps. The night breeze wandered by, and rustled the hem of the newcomer's coat. A hint of a shadow fell over him, since the only illumination was a street lamp near the sidewalk below, and Cardinal Weston sat down on the same stair he did, some distance away. He shot her a glance.

Her elegant form settled into the same position, her elbows on her knees, but she kept her head up, as if she was gazing at a horizon he could not see. He glanced back down at his bandaged hand and adjusted the wrapping. The burn hurt.

"He doesn't really blame you, you know." The cardinal's voice was quiet, but since there was only a little car traffic on the streets below, he heard her easily. His stomach churned.

"He doesn't?" He suddenly barked out a laugh. "I've known John for a while now--if he says anything at all, he says what he means. At least to me."

Weston turned to him, just watching him for a moment. Thomas stared at his hands.

"He blames himself."

Thomas furrowed his brow at her. She nodded, her green eyes glinting just a little as she watched a car drive by that only had one headlight.

"Of course. After all, he was away while _his _enemies came and attacked, and his children were taken for choices he has made."

"You've deduced this very quickly," Thomas stated flatly. Weston snorted.

"It isn't difficult. Especially when I've lived a life so similar to his." She shifted slightly, her boot scuffing the stone. "Still, John Preston is utterly unique. Even when a full dose of Prozium was working in his system, he felt more deeply than you and I do even now." April took a breath. "I cannot imagine what this must be like for him."

"Listen, that just makes it worse," Thomas snapped. "John is my friend. He _trusted _me--and I..." Thomas' brow tightened, and he gripped his hands together. Weston considered him.

"I would advise that you try and help with the recovery as much as possible," she told him. "The president has been contacted, as have three other elite Clerics stationed in the reaches of the Nethers--men John knows. We're going to try to get his children back as quickly as possible. I'll make sure you're in on it."

Thomas blinked and glanced at her.

"Thank you," he managed in a whisper. She nodded crisply, and before he could say anything else, she got up and swiftly re-entered the apartment. Thomas swallowed and stayed where he was, gazing out over the night, pain throbbing through his hand.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

John sat in a padded chair, not moving, in the spacious, sparsely-decorated seating room of Jurgen's presidential suite in Restoration Base, awaiting the president's arrival. He stared at the beige wall, his bare hand clasped in his gloved hand.

The door opened. He took a breath, preparing himself to stand to greet Jurgen.

He saw three black-clad Clerics stride through the door. He stopped.

"Emmanuel," he murmured. "Timothy--Matthew." He rose to his feet, his widened eyes searching their faces. "What are you doing here?"

Emmanuel James, a broad-shouldered, bald, towering, black-skinned man, strode forward and offered his strong hand. John took it, and grasped it tightly, the contact warming him just as much as James' reassuring smile and steady gaze.

"We were informed you were in trouble," James rumbled.

"But--" John started, his eyes flickering past him to Timothy Mill, a lithe, hard-bodied man with white-blonde hair and ebony eyes. Timothy reached out and took John's hand in both of his.

"The cardinal contacted us, and then the president," Timothy explained, glancing back at Matthew Angel, a serious, slightly-built, shorter man with ginger hair and sapphire eyes who stepped in and nodded solemnly at him.

"The Firstborn have your kids," Angel stated, then shrugged. "We are here to help you."

John's mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes darted back and forth between the gazes of his friends. He finally reached for James' hand again, tightened his jaw and swallowed.

"Thank you," he gritted. "I..." John struggled to form words, still not letting go of James' hand. He searched their faces. "I don't know how much help I'll be."

"That's why we're here," Mill smiled. "What else are old fellow Sense-Offenders for, if not to shoot back when you get shot at?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Cardinal Weston, President Jurgen, Cleric Emmanuel James, Cleric Timothy Mill, and Cleric Matthew Angel stood around one of the tactical tables in the war room of Restoration Base. The computer screens glowed, and three overhead lights that looked like surgical lamps created stark halos on the floor and on their heads and shoulders. The Clerics, the President and the cardinal spoke rapidly, listening intently when the others made cases but countering definitely when they discovered a flaw in an argument. Thomas stood away from them a bit, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression distant. Directly across from him, seated in the shadows of a corner, was John Preston, his elbow propped up on a table, his hand covering his mouth. He stared at the wall.

"So the boy _does_ have a tracking device?" James leaned forward.

"Yes, according to Preston," the cardinal acknowledged.

"But was it activated before the Awakening?" Matthew Angel, leaning on the tactical, looked up through his hanging red hair to pierce her with his blue eyes.

"Maybe," Timothy Mill folded his arms. "They activate a Clerical student's tracking device at age twelve. He turned twelve before the Awakening, correct?"

The cardinal shrugged. They all turned to Preston. He did not even acknowledge they were in the same room.

"Cleric," Jurgen called. "Did your son turn twelve before the Awakening?"

John was silent. His finger tapped his cheek. Then he shook his head, once.

"No. He's only eleven."

They were suddenly stalled.

"So...it would have to be activated now," Jurgen guessed. "Could that happen...at a distance? Does he have to be in the room?"

The Clerics considered for a moment.

"Er...No," Emmanuel finally decided. "It's possible to activate it remotely. I know they made sure they could just activate all of them at once, instead of bringing all the cadets through individually."

"I know that the Clerics had them, but I never learned all of their purposes. What was the motivation behind the tracking device?" Jurgen wondered.

"They had many purposes," Angel told him. "Most we didn't find out about until _after _we went off the dose and got into the Tetragrammaton computers. But it was mainly a security measure--if a Cleric called for backup, and he was not near his vehicle, the device would pinpoint his location."

"Of course there were other, less pleasant reasons," Mill admitted.

"Yeah, like sending electric shocks to a Cleric's brain with a push of a button on DuPont's desk," James growled.

"You don't still have them inside you, do you?" the cardinal worried. The three Clerics near her shook their heads.

"No, we initiated a program in which they could have them surgically removed," Jurgen informed her. The cardinal looked sharply at Preston.

"But--was Robbie's removed?"

Again, they were answered by silence for a long time. Then, he barely moved his hand from his mouth.

"I wasn't sure about the procedure at the time," he confessed in a whisper. "So, no."

"Thank God for parental suspicion," Jurgen said sincerely.

"But if we turn it on to see where he is--" Mill warned.

"They may realize it," the cardinal finished. They fell quiet for a moment.

"They may want us to activate it," Angel murmured. They stared at him.

"Of course they do," John dropped his hand and turned his weary head toward them, but looked down at the floor. "They want to eliminate all the Clerics that refuse to go back to the dose. They want us out of their way, so they can restore equilibrium." He raised his eyebrows, but kept his gaze down. "Do we have a choice?" He met their eyes, and said nothing more.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

John sat on a long bench in the bare metal hallway outside the main computer lab. He glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time. It was five in the morning. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest, but he could not relax. The muscles in his back were so tense that pain was beginning to run up and down between his shoulder blades.

"Why is this taking so long?"

John's eyes flashed open and he sat up, sucking in a quick breath. He blinked swiftly, rubbed at his eyes and glanced to his left where the echoing voice had come from.

It was Angel, talking to James. They were walking toward him, their black Cleric's coats ruffling, their shoes clicking. James caught sight of John and nodded at him. Angel kept speaking.

"The hacker's been working all night--are we not paying him enough?"

"I guess it's harder than we thought to resurrect a program from the virtual graveyard," James guessed, easing down onto John's bench. Angel leaned back against the wall opposite them, crossing his arms.

"Well, whose brilliant idea was it to erase it in the first place?" Angel wondered.

"You know the answer to that," James rolled his eyes. "No one wanted to fall back into that hell. Practically everything having to do with the Tetragrammaton government was destroyed."

"Except us," John murmured. The other two glanced at him. But before they could speak, the doors to their right opened and Timothy stepped through.

"The program has been uploaded," he sighed, coming to a stop near them. John leaped to his feet. Timothy held up a hand.

"But he doesn't know how to use it."

John hesitated.

"What do you mean?"

Timothy shrugged.

"He has to acquaint himself with the procedure, now, because he doesn't want to permanently deactivate the tracking device, or activate any of DuPont's pressure points."

John swallowed.

"How long will that take?" James inquired. Timothy shook his head.

"Hard to tell. Once he figures it out, he will have to run several tests. Maybe...four or five hours."

John went pale. He sat back down. Timothy looked at him steadily.

"Don't worry. He's hurrying."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

At long last, around noon, as all of them stood around the frazzled technician, Robbie's tracking device was activated.

John read the screen, then turned around and sucked in his breath.

He now knew where one child was--but he had no idea if either of them were still alive.

Absently, he heard the others discussing behind him.

"Amazing," April mused. "He's exactly where our intel would indicate--about a hundred miles out of the city, near that old factory."

Jurgen straightened.

"All right--we have our target. It's time _we _went on the offensive."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Angel, James and Mill began phase one of the operation that very afternoon: spying on the plant that was supposed to be making Prozium for the Firstborn. It was covert and very dangerous work, but after two days, they finally knew the shipping schedule, and were confident that, with more equipment, they could interrupt the dose if the need arose.

Meanwhile, Cardinal Weston, the President, and John discussed the layout of the Firstborn headquarters. Their details were sketchy, which made Jurgen and the cardinal edgy. John backed up from the tactical and turned from it, taking out one of his guns and checking its ammunition.

"We have experience attacking places we've never been inside." He clicked his weapon shut. "It's just like one of our old raids."

"Except this time, instead of sense-offenders with old, malfunctioning guns, we have fully-trained senior Clerics," April pointed out.

John did not reply.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"_But I, being poor, have only my dreams_

_I spread my dreams under your feet_..."

Night had fallen, shrouding his the gently sloping hills in darkness. The clean wind was unusually chill as he stepped out of the car and gazed up at the welcoming lights of the outpatient building. He slammed his door, then just stood there for a long time on the gravel. Slowly, his muscles tired, he approached the entrance.

"Something wrong, honey?" Gena asked as she helped him off with his guns. He managed a smile.

"I'm fine. Just tired. It's been a hard week."

"I'm sorry," Gena sympathized. "Mary should be awake; actually, she's probably seen your car and is waiting for you."

"Thank you," John sighed, and headed toward the stairs.

As before, Mary's door was open, and the lights were on inside her room. He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe and glanced in.

She was sitting on her bed, on top of her covers, her legs stretched out before her and crossed, one on top of the other. Her feet were bare, and she wore an ankle-length, white, lacy nightgown. In her bandaged arms, she held an infant, swathed in a light blue, fleece blanket. The baby looked up at her, blinking and unfocused. John recognized the look--the baby was on the edge of sleep. Mary, her head turned toward the babe rather than the door, was bathed in the soft light of the lamps. And she was singing softly.

"_I wish I was in Carrickfergus,  
Only for nights in Ballygrant  
I would swim over the deepest ocean,  
For my love to find_

_  
But the sea is wide and I cannot cross over  
And neither have I the wings to fly  
I wish I could meet a handsome boatsman  
To ferry me over, to my love and die _

_My childhood days bring back sad reflections  
Of happy times spent so long ago,  
My childhood friends and my own relations  
Have all passed on now, like melting snow._

_  
But I'll spend my days in endless roaming,  
Soft is the grass, my bed is free.  
Ah, to be back now in Carrickfergus,  
On that long road down to the sea_."

The baby's eyes drifted shut, and soon he was sound asleep. John felt a strange sort of coldness settle down behind his sternum into his stomach. He searched her face.

_I would swim over the deepest ocean for my love to find. But the sea is wide and I cannot cross over..._

There was only one man she could be singing of. It was not him.

His throat tightened, and an odd, nauseating sensation slid down his throat and tightened his diaphragm--a feeling he had not experienced for at least six months, when the words _"You were lovers_," had slipped from his hesitant mouth, their sound brushing against the cement walls of the interrogation chamber.

He made to hide himself.

Mary turned her head, and her eyes found him. He took half a step back, but her regard softened.

"Come in," she said quietly. "Once I get him to sleep, he usually stays that way."

Hesitantly, John entered.

"He doesn't hurt your arms?"

She smiled a bit.

"Oh, just a little. But he's worth it." She looked back down at the baby. "He's an orphan--his name is Peter. He and I sometimes have a little time to ourselves in the evenings." She stroked his delicate forehead with her fingers. His tiny brow creased, as if in concentration, which caused an inadvertent smile to flicker across John's lips, despite the dull ache somewhere behind his breastbone. Mary lifted her head to him.

"It's a little late--is something wrong?"

John shifted, his brow tightening, and he stepped around her bed to face the window. He did not speak for several minutes, but she did not push him. Instead, she merely waited.

"My wife died years ago--executed as a sense-offender," he began, very softly, his gaze on the gravel outside. "But I have two children. Lisa and Robbie."

"Really? How old are they?" Mary asked. John swallowed.

"Seven and eleven."

He felt Mary nod, but she said nothing. Gently, she laid the baby down on the bed beside her.

"A few weeks ago," John went on. "My partner and I went out to recover a cache of EC-10, and found that it was burned." He took a deep breath and let it out. "After...discussing it with the Cardinal of Kent, we realized that many caches have been destroyed, and it is being done by a group of Clerics called Father's Firstborn, who have gone back to taking Prozium."

Slowly, Mary slid off the bed and soundlessly stood. He kept talking, but did not look at her.

"Their leader and I had a confrontation--in the church where I killed Partridge," John's voice grew thick, and he folded his arms over his chest. "He told me that I couldn't live with myself, with what I had done, unless I returned to the dose." John glanced up, his eyes searching the sky out the window. "And then, when I was here seeing you the other night...they came to my apartment, ransacked my room and took my children."

"Oh," she whispered, and he heard her sit down on the bed. He gulped and rubbed the side of his chest.

"We...managed to activate my son's tracking device, and we've pinpointed their location. Three other Clerics are working on sabotaging the Firstborn's dose...and the cardinal and I are going in tonight to try and stop the Clerics...and rescue Robbie and Lisa."

Mary said nothing. The silence hung heavy in the air. He lowered his head, and his eyes unfocused.

"I am afraid, Mary," he whispered. "I've never told anyone that, but I am."

"What are you afraid of?" she murmured. He looked at her, and all she saw was raw pain.

"I'm afraid that they're right." He ducked his head, bit his lip briefly and shot an escapist glance out the window. "I'm afraid..." His voice became unsteady. "That what I did as a Cleric of the Tetragrammaton condemns me--and that I shouldn't wish to have the life of my choosing. My children could be dead." His tone lowered to barely audible. "And I'm afraid I deserve it."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Mary bowed her head, then finally lifted her chin.

"Cleric," she said with gentle firmness. "Come here."

He turned to her, and she extended her arms. He quietly stepped over to her, and she grasped his elbows, looking directly up at him.

"What you did as a Cleric, you did as an instrument of evil men. No, listen to me," she insisted when he glanced away and silver tears fell from his eyes. "You had no choice. You didn't know what it was you were doing--none of the Clerics did." Her grip tightened. "But here is the difference, John: once you _did _realize, you did the rightthing. You made a choice, an extremely difficult one that took tremendous courage. You eliminated a dictator, and set _millions _of people free. And then you had the strength to start to build a new life for yourself and your children." She rubbed her hand up and down his left arm. "You can do this, Cleric. And if I didn't think Gena would tie me to my bed if I said so, I would be right beside you." She smiled a little and held his gaze. "There is forgiveness to be had--all you have to do is accept it." She looked at him pointedly. "And then you have to forgive _yourself._"

More shining tears fell down his cheeks.

"Come here," Mary bid him, reaching up toward his shoulders. Uncertainly, he knelt on the floor, and Mary pulled his head into her soft bosom, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and stroking his hair. He yielded to her, embracing her warmth, feeling her lean the side of her face on the top of his head. She held him tightly, he returned the pressure, and together the Cleric and the sense-offender wept.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The time had come--three in the morning. Angel had returned to Restoration Base to give a progress report, and after assuring the team that everything was in place and that the other two Clerics would meet them, he hopped in one car and John and April climbed in another, leaving Thomas standing out on the curb, lit by the hollow light of a street lamp. John did not acknowledge him, and stared at the dashboard. For a long moment, no one moved, and finally Thomas ducked into the passenger side of Angel's car.

April gave John a long look, the pressure of which he sensed all down the left side of his body, but he did not turn his head. Finally, April sighed and started the engine.

The drive took place in almost total silence. They made their way out of the city, through the eerie Nethers, and then into the country. Soon, they entered a forest so thick that the moonlight barely penetrated the branches.

Gnarled, twisted trees hugged the winding road, leering over them as they passed quickly and quietly underneath. For the tenth time, John checked the position of each of his weapons. He wore his knee-length, black Cleric uniform, for camouflage and agility. He glanced over at the cardinal. She wore her floor-length, scarlet coat, black pants, boots and gloves. Her part called for anything but subtlety.

He turned to stare out the window, his heart beating unevenly. He tried to regulate his breathing and relax his back. It did not work.

At long last, they slowed to a halt, still within the shelter of the creepy trees. The cardinal turned off the car and switched off the lights. John climbed out of the vehicle.

A contrary, cool breeze blew through his coat and moaned softly through the bare branches above. He glanced warily around, then turned to the road ahead. Behind him, he heard the others get out and step toward him.

"Let's go," the cardinal whispered, and together they all began striding silently onward. They had no illumination to guide them except the slivers of moonlight. None but Thomas paid heed to the depth of the darkness.

They reached a bend in the road and stopped a moment, waiting. A rustle came from within the trees, and then two Clerics stepped out: James and Mill. They inclined their heads in greeting.

"Are you ready?" the cardinal asked.

"Yes, ma'am," James replied deeply. "We managed to neutralize the Prozium into a placebo, which should buy us some time. We also set mines along the road to the plant, and got away without being discovered."

"All right, then," the cardinal drew herself up. "We have about half a mile to walk, and by the time we get to where Preston's children are, the Firstborn will already know we're coming. So look sharp." She glanced crisply over at John. "Preston--walk with me."

Wordlessly, John fell into stride next to her as the others silently followed. The Clerics that trailed after left gaps, to leave room for maneuverability in case of attack.

John listened to the sounds of the forest around them, the minute tapping of their footsteps against the old cement road, and the occasional flap of the cardinal's coat. Every sense was heightened, every noise magnified.

"So, Preston," the cardinal lifted her head but spoke quietly. "Did you tell her?"

John glanced at her, startled.

"Tell who? What?"

She shot a look at him.

"Mary."

John swallowed, jerked his chin upward, then stared straight ahead of him.

"How did you know?"

"Thomas told me you were visiting a lady--the lady who gave you the courage to challenge Father."

John did not respond. He just watched his feet for a moment.

"Well?"

"Well what?" John growled, his breathing unsteady.

"Did you tell her you love her?"

He stared at her. His knees went weak and he slowed, but the cardinal kept walking, not looking back. John struggled for a moment, then caught up to her strides.

"Why would I tell her that?"

April arched an eyebrow at him.

"Because it's the truth."

John's jaw muscle twitched. He shook his head once.

"No. I can't."

"Why?"

John said nothing for a long moment. Then he swallowed again.

"Because she doesn't love _me,_" he said roughly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he whispered, blinking to clear his vision.

"Well, that hardly ever matters. Especially under these circumstances," April stated, stepping around a large pothole in the road. "She deserves to know."

"It's too late now," he said flatly, though a shiver ran up his back. April's voice quieted.

"I hope not."

John's chest tightened and he focused hard on the road ahead of them.

"And what about your disciple?" she pressed.

"What about him?"

"Have you spoken to him yet?"

John stepped over a fallen tree limb. His shoulders felt heavy.

"No."

April did not say anything for several minutes, but finally she drew in a breath.

"If there are only two things I've learned since the Awakening, Cleric, it's you shouldn't get this close to the edge of your grave without telling _someone _that you care about them."

John clenched his teeth. Her voice lowered.

"And in order to receive forgiveness, you must be willing to give it."

He met her eyes, a cold realization settling into the pit of his stomach.

"Is that an order?"

She gave him a small smile.

"It would be wise, Cleric. Think about it. But think quickly." She assessed the road in front of them. "We don't have much time."

Slowing his steps, John fell back, watching Mill and James pass him in the gloom. Angel and Thomas brought up the rear.

"Angel," John called quietly. "I'll have a word with my disciple, if you don't mind."

Angel nodded without saying anything and trotted to keep up with James and Mill. John felt Thomas' eyes on him, but began walking so that Thomas had to keep in stride. John still did not look at him. They walked silently together for a long time, Thomas' steps quick and uncertain, John's strides long and unyielding. John glanced over. He slowed a bit. Thomas raised an eyebrow slightly, then extended his steps. Gradually, they each compensated, until they once more walked naturally in step. Together they straightened their shoulders, and John spoke.

"How's your arm?"

"How's your dog?" Thomas asked at the exact same moment. They glanced at each other. Seeing as he was the junior, it was incumbent upon Thomas to speak.

"It feels good. I'll have a scar, but it doesn't bother me."

John nodded.

"My dog is...going to live. He had surgery and is recovering."

"Good."

They continued on in quiet for a few more minutes, an owl hooting somewhere in the hidden distance.

"So," John lifted his eyes. It was difficult to speak. "Are we..." His voice was thick, and his brow twitched. He let out a rushed breath and looked over at the younger man. He could not finish.

Thomas gazed at him a moment, his eyes penetrating, then nodded.

"Yes, Cleric."

John nodded.

"They're all right," Thomas assured him. John glanced over. Thomas' gaze was firm.

"You'll find them."

They kept following the others, and never broke stride.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The Clerics stood in a line, side by side, a hundred meters in front of the first set of gates of Father's Firstborn's headquarters. Beyond the first wall was a broad, abandoned yard of dirt and overgrown shrubbery. Beyond the next wall stood a vast house--almost a castle--with a broad front lawn littered with broken statues, and then three flights of stairs leading up to the front door. A long, straight walkway led one from the first gate to the next gate, then up to the entrance. Cardinal Weston glanced over at Thomas.

"Stay outside the perimeter of this wall," she instructed him. "If more than two of us go down, call Restoration Base immediately and tell them to accelerate the plan."

He and John exchanged a glance. John gave him a small reassuring nod.

"I will enter first," the cardinal continued, staring ahead. "Then James, Angel, Mill and Preston. I don't have to tell you to mind your kata. We don't want anything as embarrassing as friendly fire."

Angel chuckled.

"Preston," the cardinal met his eyes directly. "You know what to do."

John only gave her a nod.

"Very well." Weston strode forward. The others fell in behind her. After just a moment's hesitation, Thomas faded into the forest on the right.

Raising both her guns, the cardinal pulled the weighty triggers. The shots blared through the night, shocking the silence and stillness. She she broke into a run. The other Clerics instantly followed. Weston leaped into the air and pummeled the lock with her heel, using all her force. The metal gate bashed open, withering under the strength of her blow.

She landed in a cat-like stance.

A sea of Sweepers stood to either side of the path. They exploded with shouts and threats, whipping their long weapons around to bear on her. They were not going to talk. They would kill her first.

Weston settled the heavy, cold, smooth weight of her revolvers in her palms.

She grinned.

Raising up and walking forward, she crossed her arms over her chest and fired to either side. She dropped to her knees and rolled. Leaping into the air, she did a front flip, evading two bullets. She landed, easily knelt and shot to her front and right. Every movement was swift, crisp and potent, her jaw set like iron. The other Clerics followed her in this deadly dance, even paces behind her, spinning, aiming, firing. The night around them lit up like freakish day. The yard rattled with thunder. The cardinal's scarlet coat swept like a trail of blood over the path.

The Sweepers dropped like victims of a plague. Shots sputtered into the air as they fell, clutching their triggers in their death throes. Weston reached the middle of the yard, never having deviated from the walkway, and tasted victory.

And then a shot _pinged _against the cement next to her foot. She risked a glance upward.

Clerics were sniping them from the roof.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Preston's guns rested securely within his bare palms. After he had hustled off to the left during the initial chaos, he concealed himself within the natural maze of shrubbery and vanished from sight. Now, he walked silently around the perimeter of the interior wall, clenching his jaw as screams and shots echoed and mixed ghoulishly far behind him. He hoped they were all right.

He swept his trained eyes back and forth, watching for any trace of movement in the shadows. He saw nothing.

He glanced up. He had made it just to the side of the great mansion, where the wall curved and stood close to the house.

John slipped his guns back up into his sleeves, made certain no one was behind him, then leaped up and grabbed the top of the wall.

He gritted his teeth as the rough edge scraped his fingers, pulled himself up and laid flat on his stomach on the top of the stones. He shot a look over toward the distant gate.

It was as if lightning danced across the ground, for the weapons fire flew in chaotic torrents every which way. He could not distinguish the Clerics from the Sweepers--but he occasionally caught a flash of crimson.

He eased his feet underneath him and rose to his feet on the wall. He then ran across the top of it, his feet tapping quietly, until he reached the point where the wall stood only five feet from the building. He stopped and faced the mansion. Up about three feet stood a glass window with a small ledge. He took a short breath. Alarms would go off. He would have to risk it.

He briefly gathered himself, then leaped. He flew through the air--his hands caught the ledge, and the rest of his body banged against the stones. Wasting no time, he yanked straight downward, feeling his shoulder muscles strain, and propelled himself directly up. His knees landed on the ledge, and he threw his shoulder into the window. Glass shattered all around him, raining down around his face. He leaped inside and rolled, careful to protect his skin as much as possible.

He landed on the marble floor of a long corridor. He sprang to his feet, his guns snapping into his hands, feeling one trail of blood run down the side of his head.

Red lights all around him began to flash blindingly. A wailing siren sounded.

John settled his stance and calmed his face as the running footsteps of Sweepers began pounding down the hall toward him.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

No sooner had April noticed the snipers when she heard one of her own get hit.

She whirled around, downing two Sweepers as she went, to see Mill hit the ground, shining blood running down the front of his ebony uniform.

"Angel! James!" April roared, ducking down and yanking back on her triggers, firing a devastating automatic barrage across the foremost ranks. The big black man charged back toward his fallen comrade. Angel whirled forward, dancelike and efficient, spinning around April and providing cover for her as she leaped to Mill's side.

"We can't congregate like this," April shouted as she stood directly over Mill, her weapons shooting ceaselessly. James bent down to see how he was, under her cover. April felt Angel press his back against hers. She faintly heard Mill hissing through his teeth. April knew they would be dead in moments if they did not move.

"Go!" She needed not say more. James hauled Mill to his feet and dragged him back to the gate at full speed. Flashily, the cardinal and Angel whirled away from each other, drawing all the fire. They then turned, faced the great house, and side by side, leveled out into a sprint, her guns pointed straight ahead and to her left, his pointing ahead and to his right. They mowed through the Sweepers, then leaped into the air the moment their pattern became predictable. They ducked and rolled, then hopped up to face the last ten Sweepers that guarded the second gate.

In five blasting seconds they all lay dead.

Eerie, heated silence fell, and April felt the warmth from her guns wafting up against the skin of her hands.

Her shoulders twitched, and Angel jerked--a voice emitted from a hidden speaker.

"Well done," it acknowledged, though the tone was flat. "It has been educational to watch you."

"Who is speaking?" April demanded.

"We are Father's Firstborn, the faithful Clerics of the Tetragrammaton."

"What is _your _name, Cleric?"

"It doesn't matter."

"_I_ am Cardinal April Weston, and this is Cleric Matthew--"

"We know who you are," the voice cut in. "We've watched you coming for at least an hour."

April raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed? Impressive security."

"The best."

"So...why are you talking to us instead of burning us alive with H-13 or sniping us?" the cardinal inquired. She felt Angel step closer to her, almost touching her shoulder.

"We are not irrational murderers."

"Oh, no?" Angel snapped. "What do you call these fifty-odd Sweepers?"

"We knew you would have no trouble," came the easy answer. "We wanted to see your skills for ourselves--and give you the opportunity to join us."

"Really?" April canted her head. "And why would we want to do that?"

"We were hoping you would have seen our point by now--that emotion is dangerous, volatile, and brings misery and grief and guilt to the whole of society."

April's eyes narrowed.

"Is that what you think?"

"Of course."

April shook her head.

"Emotion doesn't bring grief and guilt and misery."

"Then what does, Cardinal?" the voice snapped. Her face softened.

"Being alive. Being human. And living in a world where bad things happen." She took a breath, attuning her senses to her surroundings. "And you know that, don't you? You finally know what it's like to be human." Her tone darkened. "But somehow Herald has persuaded some of the finest fighters in the country to turn into cowards, and bow mindlessly to his control."

"This form of communication is tiring, Cardinal," came the bored reply. "Won't you come in?"

Angel smirked over at her.

"No," April answered loudly. "We have nothing to negotiate with you. In fact, we are only here to deliver a warning." She spread her stance and addressed the broad front window of the mansion, through which the speaker was certainly looking. "We have discovered your Prozium plant, and this location is known to Restoration Base. If you do not come out right now and surrender yourselves, we will destroy this mansion and the plant."

"Considering that one of your number just entered this building, I highly doubt that," the voice replied. "However, we still wish to deal personally with you. So we will all come out now and kill you ourselves."

April turned and met Angel's eyes.

"Run."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

_"Tread softly. You tread on my dreams..."_

John lowered his head, letting his deep breath out slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. He focused all his senses forward, gauging the width of the hallway, and the rate at which the guards approached.

Their clattering footsteps grew loud. He heard their quickened breathing. He heard the clicking of their weapons against their vests.

"There he is!" The filtered exclamation rang through the corridor. Heat rushed through him. His eyes snapped open.

Five black-metal-and-plastic-clad guards.

He saw their fear--their eyes widened and their strides hesitated. He did not let them recover.

They had taken his children.

They brought their automatic weapons up. His muscles fired. He ran directly at them, full tilt.

"Watch out!"

They pulled their triggers. Bullets skidded past his feet. Others slammed into the wall behind him, sending clouds of dust shooting into the air. He ducked and rolled. He sprang up, only five meters in front of them, and spread his arms like wings, firing all the while.

The first three guards collapsed, screaming.

He whirled, ducking low, pulling his trigger and catching the left-hand guard in the shoulder. John rose, fell into a backstance and finished the last man with a shot directly to his head.

Silence fell as the echoes of the gunshots faded, along with the clatter of shells against the hard floor. John stared down at their blank, startled faces, and felt cold all over. His jaw tightened.

They had taken his children.

Stepping over a body, he quietly made his way to the end of the corridor, discovered a staircase, and headed upward.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

Thomas leaned against the cold hood of the car, straining his ears. The wind moaned and twigs rattled softly. Shadows moved silently in the depths of the woods. Shafts of moonlight shifted against the lifeless ground.

Then he heard it--rapid, uneven, labored footsteps against the hard road. Gasping. Groaning. Murmured words.

Thomas straightened, his hand tightening on his revolver.

Then two figures stumbled into view--a tall, bald-headed man bearing the weight of another, who was injured. Thomas' heart stopped.

"James!" he cried. "Who do you have?"

"Mill," came the grunted reply. Thomas gasped shakily, guilty relief darting through him before he burst into action. He swung around and flung open the car door so James could hustle a moaning Timothy Mill into the back seat.

"Drive," James commanded. "They're behind us."

Thomas leaped into the car, and James lunged into the passenger side back seat. Thomas instantly started the engine, and they were off before any of them were buckled.

"Where is he hit?" Thomas rasped, leaning forward over the steering wheel, keeping his eyes locked on the road.

"In the shoulder," Mill answered for himself. Thomas glanced back briefly to see James hastily unbutton Timothy's shirt, pull it off and expose the nasty, bloody wound in Timothy's pale right shoulder. Thomas' stomach turned, and he hurriedly looked forward again. He heard James snap open the small compartment in the back seat to pull out a first aid kit.

"How many are following us?" Thomas shot an anxious glance at the rear-view mirror. He saw nothing. His headlights cut through the darkness before him, and he continually swerved to try to avoid the pot-holes they revealed.

"Four," James gritted. "I heard motorcycle engines rev up when we got into the car."

Thomas swallowed. He perceived Mill shifting in his seat.

"Hold still," James commanded.

"They've got us," Mill stated.

Thomas twisted his head around to look. Thomas only saw two blinding headlights at first, but when they passed into a clearer part of the forest and the moonlight illuminated everything, Thomas' eyes flashed. Two motorcycles were bearing down on them, driven by men wearing Sweeper uniforms. But on the back of each motorcycle perched a black-clad Cleric, aiming both guns at the car.

Thomas swore.

Gunfire exploded all around the car, and Thomas reflexively ducked his head as he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The car shot forward.

"This is good!" James shouted sincerely over another salvo.

"_What?_" Thomas cried. James pressed a blood-soaked bandage down hard against Timothy's wound.

"The more that follow us, the less Preston has to deal with," James stated through his teeth.

"Right." Thomas swiped the cold sweat from his forehead and pressed the engine for more speed as they raced headlong through the inky darkness.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The hair on the back of John's neck stood up. He instantly slowed, cautiously approaching a large, black, ornate double door. His eyes narrowed. The door stood slightly ajar.

They meant for him to enter it.

Checking his ammunition, he strode forward, his footsteps almost silent, and stood before the door.

He set his stance. He reared and kicked the wood. Hard.

The door bashed open and he leaped inside, both weapons flashing to the ready.

The chamber within was pitch dark. He could feel its depth, its height, its immense length. Every surface within was hard.

Overhead light suddenly blazed to life. He blinked, his hands tightening.

He stood in a long, black, marble hall. It was empty. To his right, the wall was full of windows. Directly ahead, at the far end, stood a simple ebony desk, just like the one DuPont used to crouch behind. To his left--

John blinked again. Slowly, he straightened out of his tiger-like stance and stared.

Hanging on that entire wall was a giant tarp banner. Written in very small, black letters, organized into official-looking columns against a white background was a vast list of names:

_Brian Johnson_

_Emily Brown_

_James Rambert_

_Wendy Cambell_

_Harry Gordon..._

John's brow furrowed as a ghostly uneasiness began to gnaw at him. He vaguely recognized one or two of these names.

"What is this?" he breathed, and the chamber seemed to try to answer, using his tones to whisper back. But he did not understand.

"I wonder if my face looked like yours when I first saw my list."

John snapped his right hand revolver up again, pointing it directly at the source of the voice.

Cleric Jonathan Herald stood calmly in the far left corner, his dark uniform causing him to almost blend in with his surroundings. Herald turned his head, just slightly, his bright, shallow eyes eerily focused.

"Curious about our hall decoration?"

"No," John gritted. "Where are my children?"

Herald went on as if he had not spoken.

"I had no idea that the Tetragrammaton kept records like this, but apparently there were many things I did not know back then." His voice was regulated and even. He glanced at the banner. "Apparently, every Sense-Offender shot and killed by a Cleric was identified and logged along with the Cleric's personal records."

A chill passed through John's bones.

"We knew you were coming, Preston," Herald took a few steps toward him. "We knew it even before we came and took your offspring. We knew it before Cardinal Weston boarded her plane to begin a mission that would end with her dying at the hands of all my Clerics just a level below us." Herald glanced down at the stones, as if he could see through them. John's ribs constricted.

"That is why we took the trouble of arranging this for you." He gestured toward the names. "This is _your_ list, Preston. It is an impressive one. The longest of any of us." His voice lowered. "Over forty-three thousand."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Cardinal Weston and Matthew Angel pelted through the forest, branches slapping their faces and tearing their clothes.

"We'll find the road eventually," April gasped to the man at her side. "We have to travel a bit east, now, but we can't risk the road now."

"I know this was the plan, but we should still hurry," Angel knocked a thicker branch away with his palm. "Seventeen Clerics can surround us."

They had poured out of the front door of the mansion, running in obsidian ranks, their footsteps perfectly in-sync, their deadly, passionless gazes fixed on the two who had fled the yard before them. Now April heard them mere paces behind, dodging through the trees, crashing through underbrush--and occasionally firing shots that pitted the ground right where her foot had just been.

"Turn!" April commanded in a low voice, and as one, they swerved to the right, leaping over a small stream just as they saw it, landing on the other side, then leaping onto the road. Their boots scuffed the cement. Of course the Clerics heard them. But now that their terrain was mostly level, they made much better time.

April gripped her guns. A branch cracked loudly behind her. She whirled, kept running backwards, and fired at the first movement she saw. Light flashed along with the percussive boom. Someone cried out in pain and surprise. She continued her twirl and faced forward again, catching up to Matthew.

"The car," he pointed. They pounced on the vehicle, slapping their searching hands against its cold metal, then flinging the doors open. April started it. She gunned the engine before Angel had fully shut the door.

"Good," she panted. "Now all we have to do is lead them toward Base and--"

An explosion rocked the car, nearly deafening both of them. Then a terrible grating sound assaulted them.

"Our tire's been shot," Angel breathlessly realized.

"All right," April gritted, pushing down on the gas. "This thing will run on the rims for a while."

"Not very long."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"What now?" Thomas cried. He was interrupted as one of the Clerics fired true, shattering the entire back window down onto James and Mills' heads and shoulders. Thomas swerved violently, then had to yank the wheel back around to avoid diving into a bombed-out section of the road. He risked a glance behind to the other two, his heart thundering.

"Are you oka--"

"_Drive!" _James roared.

They broke out of the woods and reached a straight, open stretch of road that led to the bridge to the Nethers. Thomas opened up the engine and hit ninety miles an hour in a few seconds. Dawn was beginning to tinge the east.

Thomas glanced back into the shaking rear-view mirror. The wind-whipped Clerics, looking like they were standing in stationary pillars rather than speeding cycles, bent their knees and tapped their drivers' helmets. The motorcycles sped up.

"You can lose them in the Nethers." James brushed glass of of himself and Mill. It clinked as it hit the seats. Mill's breathing was coming in short gasps through his teeth. Thomas did not answer. He just tightened his jaw and clenched his hands on the wheel as they jetted over the bridge and entered the Nethers.

"Great," he hissed to himself under the sound of the roaring wind. "In addition to being shot at, we get to drive through an old mine field."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

When the next tire got shot out from beneath them, April lost control. The car tipped sideways and slipped into a ditch, then slammed head-first into a tree. Instantly, she shoved the airbag out of her face, unbuckled and jumped out of the car, the scent of burned rubber scorching her. Angel followed her, staggering into knee-deep water.

"Come on!" Angel gasped, sure that her wrist was broken.

"You okay?" Angel's cheek was bleeding. He grabbed her upper arm. She nodded.

"Yes. Let's--"

"Enough."

They froze. A Cleric stood up on the road, his arm extended, his gun pointing at them.

"Come up here to the road," he ordered. Angel did not let go of her. Slowly, they maneuvered up the steep ditch, then their feet hit the paving. The Cleric did not budge his aim from them.

The sun was rising--April could almost see him. He was tall, strongly-built, and she could see edges of his chiseled features.

"Well, it's been interesting," he said. April blinked. Slowly, holding her injured left arm, she took a few steps toward him, never taking her eyes from his. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head. The light of dawn illuminated him more and more. He had dark hair streaked with red and blonde, and his features could be called classical, judging by the few paintings April had seen--much like that marble statue of David.

"Levi?" she whispered.

He raised his black eyebrows, just barely. April's eyes flashed, and a dart of poison raced down through her gut.

"Oh!" she whispered, and impulsively reached out to him. He impulsively backed out of her reach. But he was suddenly shaken. His gun rattled, then lowered, and he stared into her eyes. "Levi Marland," she breathed, her brow twisting. "What are you doing here?"

He swallowed, then pressed his left hand to his throat, as if to feel his pulse. Then his eyes widened.

"I..." he stammered. "My dose..."

"Levi," April said again. But then a jolt of pain lanced through her arm and she winced. Just as impulsively, he stepped toward her.

"Are you hurt?"

She stared at him. He stared back.

"Levi," she breathed. "What--"

"Marland!" The voice rang through the early morning. He froze. April glanced past him. Sixteen Clerics emerged like wraiths from a haunted wood.

"Cleric Marland--kill them!" one shouted. April's breath caught. Her gaze locked with Levi's. He moved to lift his gun.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

John Preston's gaze unwillingly dragged over to the names covering the banner, the black shapes of every letter searing through him. His shoulder muscles trembled.

_Helen Wane _

_Nathan Terrace_

_ Gerald Phillips_

_Andrew Seamus..._

"I..." His voice rasped. "I never counted. I couldn't have--"

"Of course you could," Herald dismissed it. "You were _the_ Senior Cleric, the single most skillful and deadly of our number! You were famous for taking down ten to twenty sense offenders _a day_. Sometimes as many as fifty." His tone quieted. "We all admired you for that, Preston. We all ambitiously wished to be like you."

John swallowed. The pain of the motion continued down to his knees. He turned back to Herald.

"What do you want with me?" John demanded. Herald spread his hands.

"Only to talk. You may lower your weapon. As you can see, I am not holding any. And if I made a move for one, I am sure you would adequately protect yourself."

John held his empty gaze for a long moment. Then, gradually, he brought his arm back down so it rested at his side.

"As I said--what do you want?" he snarled.

"I want you to see clearly, Cleric," Herald answered. "What has your life been like since the so-called 'Awakening,'? Peaceful? Prosperous?" He stopped and stared at him. "Happy?"

John did not answer. Herald's words were calm.

"Or have your nights been plagued by nightmares, and your days filled with uselessness?" Herald moved to stand before him. "Do you feel as if you have no direction, no guidance--that nothing you do can fix the mistakes of your past?"

Herald's voice needled through John's bones. He still did not answer.

"I know your mind, Preston," Herald told him, stopping his paces and clasping his hands behind his back. "I know because your mind is like mine, and like that of every Cleric within this building."

John clenched his jaw.

"No."

Herald looked at him sideways.

"No? Do you not see the connection? Before Father's downfall, before the interruption of the dose and the restructuring of the government, you had confidence, purpose, a mission, useful skills, and an unshakable peace that followed you all day and night. You were a level-headed leader." Herald lowered his head, his eyes never leaving John's. "Now, what do you have? Misery. Pain. Regret. Uncertainty. Doubt follows you wherever you go, and sits on your shoulder during every decision. Instead of being one of the most esteemed men in the Tetragrammaton, you are nothing more than a glorified scavenger hunter." Herald pressed closer. "And there is also rage. Pain so deep that violence fills you, threatening to explode and tear into whoever is near you."

John shivered. But he did not look away.

"And what of the violence, the chaos that ensued after the Tetragrammaton was deposed? What of the criminals and vandals that hide in the country and the Nethers? For all the grand buildings now inhabited by the flimsy new government, we have been thrown back to the dark ages!" His voice quieted. "Don't you see, Preston?" Herald whispered. "All our peace, our security--all the prosperity and tranquility and equality that Prozium and the Tetragrammaton gave us has been traded away for a prize that's nothing but carnival glass. This is _not _the way mankind was supposed to live. And I am not alone in feeling so."

John's eyes narrowed.

"Every one of those Clerics downstairs has come to the same conclusion," Herald revealed. "We have realized that Father was always right: that emotion is a disease that must be purged from us, or it will destroy us, like a cancer." He raised his eyebrows. "And it will destroy you, too, Preston."

John took a deep breath.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You have no children," John answered rockily. "You have no concept of the joy another person can bring you." A vision of Mary lying on her bed, asleep, bathed in sunlight, and _alive, _flooded his mind. "They show me that there's good in the world--innocence. As long as I have them--I'll never believe what you say."

"Well, that is easily fixed." Herald reached inside his pocket, pulled out a small, black device and pushed a red button on its surface.

John's eyes flashed.

"What is that?" he demanded. Herald looked up at him flatly.

"I just activated the toxin release into the gas chamber on the roof, where your children are being held." He glanced down at his watch as John's soul filled with horror.

"Their hearts should stop beating right about...now."

John's muscles turned to water. He almost let go of his guns, for he lost all feeling in his limbs. His vision fogged, and his brain went numb.

"Look at you, Preston. Don't you understand?" Herald's voice murmured, like a wraith through the mist. "Don't you recognize what is filling you right now?" John dimly registered that Herald had grabbed him by the collar. Herald spoke tightly, inches from his face. "It is called _weakness._"

John's vision cleared. His head snapped around and his eyes blazed straight through Herald, taking in his chiseled features, hard mouth and blank, heartless, inhuman eyes--inhuman even without the Prozium.

Savage power unlike any John had ever felt surged through every fiber and tendon. He let go of one gun. He moved like a bolt of lightning, lashing out to clamp a vise grip on Herald's arm. With a mighty heave, so fast the eye could not register, he flung Herald onto his back, slamming him to the floor, hearing a sickening snap as his shoulder dislocated. John leaped back, and brought his left gun up to point at Herald's head.

"Preston, listen!" Herald grimaced. "They had to be eliminated for you to fulfill your potential, for you to realize the truth."

John drew himself up.

"Listen to me, you worthless, gutless coward. I don't know if I'll _ever_ be absolved of all the deaths up there on that wall." He jerked his head in that direction. His voice filled with heat. "But I do know this: Love is _never _a weakness." And John shot him.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

A menacing roar filled the sky. The seventeen Clerics, April and Matthew looked up to see three gray bombers flash through the morning directly above them like avenging angels. They swooped down, and dropped something upon the western woods. The next moment, a terrific explosion shook the earth, and a tower of flame stretched its ravaging fingers to the clouds. Levi whipped around to face her, panicked and questioning.

"The Prozium," she murmured. He had no time to say anything. The thunder of a helicopter assaulted them from above and behind, and machine-gun fire rained down on the Clerics beyond. Shouting, they turned and ran.

"Levi!" April tried to grab for him. But suddenly the sniper aboard the helicopter aimed for him, and he dove out of the way. The cement shattered where he had just stood. He glanced back at her, then raced after the others. April clenched her good fist and her jaw, her heart hammering as she watched the gunfire follow on his heels. He dove into the woods, the last Cleric to vanish there. The gunfire stopped.

The thumping of the helicopter blades became deafening as it lowered to land. Ducking, Angel and April climbed aboard.

"I'll take you back to Base!" the pilot yelled.

"No!" April shouted back. "I need some bandage and a sling, and then we're going back to John!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Just so you know," Thomas gritted loudly. "We're all gonna die."

"We know," Mill answered.

"Okay, just so that's clear." Thomas ground his teeth as he wheeled around an alley corner, nearly going up on two wheels. The Clerics on motorcycles were right behind them.

"Watch out!" James yelped, ducking. One Cleric leveled his gun and shot out one of the tail lights.

"All right," James rumbled in his throat, sitting back up and glaring blackly at their pursuers. "This is starting to make me mad." He slapped Thomas' shoulder. "Thomas! Swing around here and then go in this warehouse!"

"_What? _We'll be trapped!"

"Shut up and do it!"

Thomas hauled on the steering wheel, the tires squealed as they took a narrow corner and darted straight into the gaping mouth of a warehouse. The motorcycles missed it and jetted past--they could not make such a sharp turn with the Clerics aboard.

"Stop! Get out!" James commanded. The car screeched to a halt and Thomas leaped out. James slammed his car door shut and jumped across to the other side of the open door.

"Get out your gun, and put your shoulder to the doorframe, right across from me" James said hurriedly, glancing outside. Thomas obeyed, his hands shaking. The sound of motorcycle engines grew suddenly nearer.

"When I say now," James instructed, eyes steady. "Step out, shoot the right-hand driver in the head. I'll take the left. Then back up out of the way like your life depended on it." James' eyes narrowed. "Don't miss."

Thomas felt sick, but he nodded. James watched outside, just barely. The engines approached. Their sound rang through the empty warehouse.

"Ready..." James breathed. "Now!"

Thomas leaped out into the open. Time slowed. Directly before him, no more than fifty feet, a black motorcycle bore down on him like a freight train. The Cleric on board stood straight as a pine, his wicked arm pointing his gun right at Thomas' head. Thomas lifted his own weapon and aimed at the driver's helmet.

He fired. Absently, he heard James fire, too. Then he leaped sideways, back into the shadow of the wall. A bullet grazed his forehead. Pain seared through his scull. But things had gone worse outside.

The motorcycles collided. They exploded. The sound shook their bones. A blazing ball of hulking wreckage rocketed past them into the warehouse, lighting it like high noon.

"Get in the car!" James roared. Thomas did not stop to think. He jumped in the same time James did, and shot out of the warehouse as flames consumed it.

"That was great, boys," Mill said listlessly.

"Hang on, Timothy," James urged. "We'll get you back to Base--it's just about five minutes away."

"And then I'm going back to John," Thomas said, swiping the blood out of his eyes. Feeling cold, he silently added: _If he's still alive._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

_Dona nobis requiem_

_Grant us rest_

Blurry orange light swam across John's vision. Hot tears filled his eyes, spilling over his soft lower eyelids, bathing his eyelashes and trickling like burning rivers down his nose, his cheeks, and the corners of his lips. The tears were cold by the time they reached his chin, and dripped to land on the back of his left hand. This hand, open, delicately rested palm down on the cool, rough-hewn stone of the battlement of the mansion roof. He closed his eyes, which sent a new surge of salt water coursing over his cheekbones. The heat and the light of the sunrise pressed against his skin, increasing the ache in the center of his brow and the back of his throat.

Despite his tears, his heart was empty. The tears had come when he had reached the roof, and he had been unable to stop them. He made no noise, and his face never moved. He barely breathed. His thoughts had stopped. His entire world was silence and numbness.

He took a breath, and almost automatically addressed that distant presence he had always sensed waiting for him amidst the darkness after he woke up from his nightmares. Only now he could not wake up.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice barely recognizable, rough and weak. "You can't...Please...Why would you...take _them_...from me?" He opened his eyes and tilted his head back, a shining tear running from his eye down his jawbone and neck. "I cannot...cannot go on without some help, here." He let out a long, rattling breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "I know this is what I deserve...but if you would like to forgive me, I'd--"

Something brushed his hand. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. He shook his head, spilling his tears, and glanced down to his right with furrowed brow.

A small hand clasped his. He stared, his eyes following the hand that was connected to a black-clad, slender arm, that was connected to a little brown-haired, brown-eyed girl--who was looking up at him and smiling.

And right behind her stood a slightly taller, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy.

"Are you okay, Daddy?" the little girl asked. "Your shirtsleeve is torn."

John fell to his knees and swept her desperately into his arms, then lashed out and grabbed Robbie, too, pulling them both to him and kissing their faces. They gripped him in return, and Lisa wiped the tears from his cheeks with her fingers.

"How did you--" John gasped.

"How did we what?" Lisa wondered. John backed up a little and looked at them.

"Herald said he put you in a...a gas chamber and filled it with toxin," John managed. Robbie's eyebrows went up.

"A gas chamber? No, he had us in a cage on the other side of the roof over there," Robbie had to merely indicate with his head, because John held both his arms captive. John glanced far past him and saw the corner of an iron cage behind some crates.

"How did you get out?" John asked, still baffled.

"I didn't go to five years of Cleric monastery so that I wouldn't know how to pick a lock," Robbie answered with playful scorn. John was still staring at both of them, his brain sluggish.

"So...Herald lied."

Lisa giggled.

"I guess so."

For a moment, John's eyes raced over her features, and then the features of his boy, and a smile broke across his face. Suddenly, he laughed, and kissed her forehead, and both children fell against him again, encircling his neck with their arms.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Preston!" April cried as she hurried through the second mansion gate, trying not to jostle her left arm, which hung in a makeshift sling. The green lawn was bathed in golden sunlight, and sparkled with dew. The statues appeared serene and ancient in the day--they had lost their sepulchral pallor in the softness of the morning. A warm, welcoming wind tossed her hair and coat.

Thomas came right beside April, having taken a helicopter back, and Angel followed directly behind. April let out a laugh.

"You found them!"

John Preston beamed brightly, striding toward them with straight shoulders as he led both his children by the hand, one on either side. The two groups stopped and faced each other, the smile never leaving John's face. His bright eyes found his partner.

"Hello, Thomas."

Thomas gazed at John a moment, not knowing what to say. John then stepped forward and pulled him into a rough embrace that Thomas instantly returned.

Thomas backed up and John slapped his shoulder, nodding firmly at him. John then extended his hand to April. She grasped it.

"Well done, Cardinal," John commended. "And you, too, Angel." He warmly took his hand as well. "It looks like it worked."

"It did, indeed," April nodded, grinning.

"Hi, Matthew," Lisa said shyly. Angel smiled at her and gently tweaked her nose.

"How are you, Buttercup?" he asked.

"Good," she blushed, hiding behind her dad's arm.

"You remember Matthew Angel, don't you Robbie?" John looked down at him.

"Yes."

John's eyes suddenly flickered, and his smile faded.

"Where are James and Mill?"

"Mill was hit, but it's not serious," Thomas told him. "James is with him."

John took a breath and nodded.

"Well, good."

April glanced up at the forbidding mansion and narrowed her eyes.

"I'll call Base right away and have them strike this place as soon as we're gone."

"No."

She faced Preston, her brow furrowing.

"No? Why?"

His eyes strayed over the windows and battlements, and up and down the impressive stairway.

"It's beautiful, April. Probably one of a kind," he said softly. "We can take it for our own, and see what's inside--but we can't destroy it. No matter what's happened here."

April watched him carefully. A smile twitched her mouth and she marveled at him.

"All right, Cleric," she allowed. "Whatever you say."

Instead of looking back at her, though, his gaze became even more distant and serious. He swallowed.

"Cardinal," he said quietly. "Would you and Thomas do me the favor of watching my children for an hour or two?" He looked at her then. "I have to go talk to someone."

April straightened.

"Of course, Cleric," she assured him. "We will be waiting for you."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Mary! Mary, he's come back!" Gena shouted down the hallway.

Mary jerked up straight in the window seat of the downstairs parlor. All night and all morning, she had sat there, dressed in a long, deep-green, long-sleeved velvet dress, Preston's right-hand glove, his book and the red ribbon that had hidden between the pages now clutched in her lap. All night and all morning, she had waited in silence, watching the sun come up, trying to keep her heartbeat slow. But now, at Gena's words, her heart leaped into her throat.

She turned toward the doorway, gripping the glove, a shiver running all through her. She felt the light of the sun warm her back and the curtain she leaned against.

She heard strong, hurried footsteps against the wooden floor of the corridor. And then he came in.

He stopped at the edge of the floral rug, breathing hard, touched by fingers of sunlight. His black Cleric's uniform was torn and soiled. His dark hair was slightly mussed, one strand brushing the top of one of his heavy eyebrows. His handsome, rugged features were marked with occasional cuts, the bottom lip of his soft mouth bore a bruise, and his dark eyes shone with depth and brilliance.

"Mary," he said breathlessly. She pushed the contents of her lap onto the window seat-- though she still grasped the ribbon--rose and quickly swept toward him, her bare feet padding on the carpet.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, her throat closing, and she reached out to him.

"No, no, Mary," he cast his gaze down, his brow knotting. But she could not help it--she could not keep her hands from him. Her pale trembling fingers took hold of his black shirt sleeves, keeping him from fleeing, and her eyes earnestly searched his face. There was silence a moment, but she waited. He swallowed.

"Who was it?" His deep voice was quiet and hesitant, but desire and fear lay beneath it.

"What do you mean?" she asked, just as softly.

"The man you sang about," he murmured. He lifted his shimmering eyes to hers. "The man across the water--the man you love but couldn't reach."

Mary gazed at him for a long moment. Then she stepped in a little closer and reached up to delicately touch his face with her left hand. She stroked the soft skin beneath his eye with her forefinger, then traced his lips with her thumb. His breathing became unsteady, but his searching hands cautiously wrapped against her waist. Her eyes traveled slowly over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones and his chin, then found his gaze again. Her right hand slipped the ribbon into his coat, next to his heart, then came up to rest against the nape of his neck.

"If you want to know the truth, Cleric," she smiled gently. "It was you."

He blinked, and his eyebrows flickered. A tear fell. She leaned up and met his warm lips with hers. They both tasted salt.

A dam broke within him. He wrapped his arms fiercely around her and drank her in as her arms embraced his shoulders.

When their lips broke apart, he did not withdraw. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Mary," he gasped. "Mary, I love you."

She leaned her head back so she could see him, and beamed at him. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he laughed uncertainly, then he could not resist a radiant smile. Quickly, Mary drew him back down and covered the smile with another kiss.

THE END


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